

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT 



































































Books by ARTHUR B. REEVE 


Craig Kennedy Listens In 
The Adventuress 
Constance Dunlap 
The Dream Doctor 
The Ear in the Wall 
The Exploits of Elaine 
The Film Mystery 
Gold of the Gods 
Guy Garrick 
The Panama Plot 
The Poisoned Pen 
The Romance of Elaine 
The Silent Bullet 
The Social Gangster 
The Soul Scar 
The Treasure Train 
The War Terror 


HARPER & BROTHERS 


PUBLISHERS 




CRAIG KENNEDY 
LISTENS IN 


ADVENTURES OF CRAIG KENNEDY 
SCIENTIFIC DETECTIVE 


BY 

ARTHUR B. JjtEEVE / 

AUTHOR OP “THE FILM MYSTERY,” “THE SOUL SCAR,” 
AND OTHER CRAIG KENNEDY STORIES 



* > V 

»/» 


HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS 
NEW YORK AND LONDON 






CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Copyright, 1923, King Feature Syndicate 
Copyright, 1923, by Harper & Brothers 
Printed in the U. S. A. 


First Edition 


H-X 


Obi W v 


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©CUT 00351 - 


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CONTENTS 


CHAPTER 

PAGE 

I. 

The Wireless Phantom 

1 

II. 

Buried Alive! 

65 

III. 

The Brass Key 

1S1 

IV. 

The Boulevard of Bunk 

199 

V. 

The Soul Merchant 

265 

VI. 

Buccaneers of Booze 

381 



The 

Wireless Phantom 



THE WIRELESS PHANTOM 


I 

SPIRIT MOVIES 

“Creepy, uncanny things are happening in my 
own picture—and under my veiy eyes, Kennedy— 
and I can’t explain them!” 

Murray Miller, director of a new motion picture 
serial, “Radio Romance,” was appealing to Ken¬ 
nedy—Miller whom I knew to be engaged to his 
star, little Angela Arnold, that exquisite cameo of a 
girl who commanded a salary big enough for a 
couple of bank presidents and got on the front page 
of the papers if she so much as sneezed. 

Craig and I were alone with Murray in the execu¬ 
tive office at the Queensborough Studio. 

Something about the movies has always interested 
me. Probably it is the big money many of my 
former newspaper friends are getting now as suc¬ 
cessful scenario writers. At any rate, whenever Ken¬ 
nedy was called in on anything connected with 
motion pictures I always managed to be on hand. 
Then, too, I knew a good deal about Murray, who 
used to be a newspaper artist before he took up 
illustrating magazines and then became a quite suc¬ 
cessful director of photoplays. The movies had 
lured many a good newspaper man to the studios. 

l 


2 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“You know, Kennedy, the public is in just that 
unreasonable frame of mind to-day when it won’t 
think twice before it fastens a scandal on anyone in 
motion pictures. . . .” 

Murray gesticulated excitedly as he paced up and 
down. “If I can’t fathom what is going on—and 
stop it—my picture is ruined—I am ruined—Angela 
is ruined!” 

There was a tap at the door and a boy entered 
with a couple of flat circular shiny tin cans and a 
receipt book. 

Murray checked a hasty exclamation, and signed 
the receipt book, which I saw bore stamped in black 
the name “Beaumont Laboratory.” The boy shut 
the door quietly. Murray looked anxiously at the 
cans. 

“Here’s yesterday’s take, developed and printed 
and back from the laboratory. . . . Kennedy, you’ve 
got to help me! ... I can’t think! . . . Come 
down into the projection room and I’ll show you 
what I mean. . . . This thing has cost me thousands 
of dollars already. . . . And I have the reputation 
of being an economical director and producer.” 

We followed Murray by a back way downstairs 
into the cellar of the studio building. The steps 
themselves were rickety, the cellar almost eerie. As 
we entered the gloom I was conscious of a strange 
whirr in the air. 

“This used to be an old armory,” explained Mur¬ 
ray. “When the troop built a new one, my company 
hired this, made it into a studio.” We picked our 
way past a huge, humming transformer. “Local 
current is A. C. We must have D. C. for pictures.” 

Beyond the transformer we came to a passage 


I 


SPIRIT MOVIES 3 

way and a door, behind which was another with a 
glaring, sputtering white light. Through the first 
door I could see a huge square of light with rounded 
corners and I knew that it was the projection room, 
and that on the other side of the second door the 
operator was adjusting the sputtering carbons of his 
projector. 

We entered the projection room. I shivered. I 
felt a sort of dank, earthy dampness. 

“Used to be the rifle range for the troop/’ ex¬ 
plained Murray. “We cut this end off, built the 
screen, made a projection room; gives us a long 
throw for the picture.” 

He had paused only long enough to hand the cans 
into the booth where the man was working. 

“All right, Bill,” he shouted. “This is yesterday’s 
take. Shoot!” 

Hastily I noted that there were a dozen or twenty 
chairs ranged in the back of the room, under the 
beam of light that cleft from the safety booth back 
of them, and an ordinary small deal table, with a 
green-shaded lamp, evidently for taking notes. It 
was not a sumptuous room, like many projection 
rooms I had been in, but I recalled Murray’s remark 
about economy. 

Various shots and scenes began to unroll on the 
screen, each followed by a few feet of a boy holding 
a slate on which were chalked some mystic numbers, 
such as “Ep 1-132,” which I learned referred to 
Episode 1 of the serial, scene 132, and was tagged on 
for identification. 

We came at last to a scene of a merry party of 
young people in a most lavish room, evidently at a 
country house. In the left foreground one of them 


4 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

was adjusting a splendid radio set, as the others 
danced. 

Suddenly the upper part of the picture seemed 
to blur. 

Faintly, now, I could make out a face, a shadowy 
face, of a man, an oldish man, a face some three or 
four times as large as that of the actor in the closest 
foreground. 

“There! . . . There it is!” cried Murray, leaping 
up, his own form now blackly silhouetted on the 
screen, as he came between it and the projection 
machine. “Do you see it?” 

Kennedy nodded, straining forward. 

“Thousands of feet of my film have been rendered 
worthless by the presence of that—that spirit face!” 

“Is it always the same?” 

“Always the same; only two poses.” 

“Well, who is the old guy?” I asked. “Does any¬ 
one recognize him?” 

“Old John Garland—Angela’s stepfather!” 

Murray stopped the projection as he drew us 
closer to him and in a few whispered sentences told 
us the story, which he had purposely postponed un¬ 
til he could tell it to Kennedy wdth best effect. 

“Maybe you connect it now. Angela’s mother is 
the rather famous Selena Arnold, who has medium- 
istic powers—or believes she has—believes Angela 
has, too. Only I think Angela’s got too much sense. 
A couple of summers ago she and Angela lived at the 
old Garland House on the south shore of Long 
Island. The elderly John Garland, the proprietor, 
became infatuated with Selena. Oh, they held hun¬ 
dreds of seances. . . . 

“Well, Garland and Selena Arnold were married. 


SPIRIT MOVIES 


5 


Then things began to happen. Dr. Newlin, a pretty 
intelligent physician out there interested in psychi¬ 
cal research, investigated Selena and wrote a paper 
exposing her as a trickster. The townspeople said 
that the spirits had affected old Garland’s mind. 
Then Garland, apparently believing his mind was 
failing incurably, or else broken by the exposure of 
Selena, committed suicide. By his will Selena 
Arnold inherited his estate. There’s been litigation 
over the will; the surrogate won’t admit it to pro¬ 
bate ; it’s still unsettled. There, you have the thing 
in a nutshell, that thing.” 

“Go on; let’s see some more,” asked Craig. 

Murray called to his operator and the film un¬ 
reeled some more. The boy with the slate appeared, 
then followed a second take of the same action, 
joined to the rest, as before. 

On the second take, even on the few feet of the 
slate boy, still appeared the filmy torso and face of 
old Garland, almost as if with a sardonic grin on the 
wrinkled face. 

“Give me some of that part with the shadowy 
face,” asked Kennedy. 

“Bill!” called Murray. The operator stopped. 
“When you get through, tear out a hundred feet—” 

“No, I mean of the negative.” 

“Oh, all right. Shoot, Bill.” 

The film flickered on again. 

“Yes, I’ll give orders to the laboratory when we 
go upstairs. I’ll give you hundreds of feet of nega¬ 
tive with that confounded face on it. I’ll send—” 

There was a clatter of sprockets in the booth back 
of us. An automatic arrangement immediately 
closed a little fire door. We were in total darkness. 


6 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“The film broke, Mr. Miller,” called the operator, 
voice muffled now. “I’ll patch it in a minute, sir.” 

We sat in the darkness. Somehow or other my 
eyes persisted in showing to me that sardonic smile 
on the old man’s face. Perhaps it was eye-strain. 

No one said a word. 

At the moment I was as conscious that there was 
some presence near us, however, as I was that Ken¬ 
nedy and Murray were with me in the black pro¬ 
jection room. 

There was an uncanny, scraping noise. 

“Did you move that?” 

“What?” 

“The table!” 

“No.” 

“It moved. . . . It’s moving now!” 

“Table tipping, too?” I put in with nervous 
levity. 

Kennedy laid his hand on my arm for silence. 
Plainly audible now was a tap, tap, tap! 

“Rapping!” repeated Murray, breathlessly. 

We listened, stock still—at least I was. It was 
repeated, closer, louder, more distinct. 

“It is a message,” whispered Kennedy. “Morse!” 

Close to our ears he spelled it out. 

“S. .T. .A. .R—S. .T. .A. .R—S. .T. .A. .R.” 

“What does it mean?” thrilled Murray under his 
breath. “Star? Angela’s the star! More danger 
for Angela?” 

The rapping ceased. Bill, the operator, had 
patched up the broken film, and the lights came 
back, with the picture—and the face. Almost I 
could see a deepening of that sardonic grin. 





SPIRIT MOVIES 


7 


“Star?” I repeated, turning away. “Star? My 
paper! Here, I’ve got this morning’s Star in my 
pocket. Did you have anything about you in this 
morning? I haven’t read the paper yet myself.” 

Murray grabbed it, held it out in the light. On 
the first page his searching finger stopped on a 
headline: 

“Scientist Declares Wireless Fires Impossible.” 

Beneath followed a statement from some board of 
underwriters. 

Murray was plainly on edge. “My God! Was that 
thing really a . . . threat? Does it mean that there 
is such a thing as a wireless fire, after all?” 

“What are you thinking of—your thousands of 
feet of negative?” cut in Kennedy reassuringly. 
“They’re in a vault at the laboratory, aren’t they?” 

“Yes . . . but they’re not safe . . . nothing is 
safe . . . even in a fireproof vault ... if there is 
such a thing as ... a wireless incendiary!” 

Kennedy did not argue with him. We saw out the 
rest of the film, then turned to go up to the studio by 
the front stairs. 

Out in the cellar again, I heard more plainly 
now the peculiar whirring noise, different in pitch 
from the hum of the transformer. 

“What’s that?” asked Craig. “Sounds like a band 
saw.” 

“It is. The carpenter shop is down here, along¬ 
side the projection room.” 

“Oh ... I see.” 

Kennedy paused halfway up the stairs. 

“Couldn’t that negative raw stock have been tam¬ 
pered with—double-exposed?” 


8 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“Yes—you might explain it in that way; I can 
explain it, too . . . that way. . . . But, explain 
what you will witness in the studio, on the set, where 
we are shooting our important sequence of scenes!” 


A SUPER-REGENERATIVE GHOST 


We passed down a short corridor in which an 
elderly man as buffer presided at a desk beside 
which hung a sign, “No casting to-day/' offering him 
a graphic argument to the ten or a dozen movie- 
struck applicants with folios of portraits and stills. 

Past a pair of swinging doors we came out into a 
great, girdered, armory-like hall, some eighty or 
ninety feet wide and perhaps two hundred feet deep. 
Near the doors I observed a huge switchboard. 

“ 'Way down there at the other end," indicated 
Murray, “is one of my big sets—the Radio Dance 
set we call it—the set, by the way, you saw just 
now in the print that came back from the laboratory 
this morning." 

“Tell me just a bit of what you're taking." 

“Well, you see, in the picture some young people, 
the Gerards, have just got the radio fever and have 
installed an expensive super-regenerative set. They 
are celebrating the installation in the huge living 
room of their country home on the south shore of 
Long Island by inviting all the younger set to their 
first radio dance. That's the title of the first epi¬ 
sode, The Radio Dance.'" 

“Good stuff!" I appreciated. 

“The dance is on," continued Murray, for once 
his visualization as an author and a director getting 


10 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

the better of his anxiety as both. “But a storm is 
coming up. You know what that does to the radio 
—static—and all that. I’ll give you a chance to see 
some movie lightning to-day—I hope. 

“The radio is out. ... So they turn to canned 
music. Blooey! Another flash! The lights go on 
the blink! Darkness! 

“Suddenly, a spotlight, in the hands of a masked 
figure ... in a light effect ... a girl, we see 
. . . Close foreground of a masked girl. . . . Spoken 
title: ‘Hands up!’ . . . then, when I cut it, back 
to the full shot . . . the spotlight passes over the 
various faces in the room . . . shots at various 
angles to establish what I want to establish. . . . 
We get over that there are two men and a girl. 
. . . They frisk the younger set for a couple of hun¬ 
dred thousands of old family jewels. . . . Cut!” 
laughed Murray, as if coming out of living it himself 
and not sure how Craig would take an author’s 
trance. 

As we picked our way in and out of sets, some 
standing for further use, one being struck and an¬ 
other on which the carpenters were hammering, 
making the big studio resound like a factory, the 
first thing I really paid much attention to was a very 
pretty girl crossing the stage down at the other end 
of what must have been the radio dance set. 

I glanced at Murray. “Who is she?” 

Kennedy laughed. “It’s a weakness!” he nodded 
to Murray and both laughed. 

“I may get laughed at a lot—but I get a lot of fun, 
too!” I retorted. 

Still I looked toward the girl. She was now ad¬ 
justing a mask over her face. As she finished she 


A SUPER-REGENERATIVE GHOST 11 


turned quickly and, with three or four long slides 
across the glossy floor of the handsome living-room- 
ballroom set, stopped suddenly before us. 

“Hands up!” 

She poked an automatic in Murray’s face. Then 
with a quick motion she pulled off her mask. 

“How’s that? Will I get across?” 

Murray’s poise was not shaken for an instant and 
we learned that we were favored by Lois Gregory, 
the “vamp” of the piece. 

I thought she was one of the most beautiful girls 
I had ever seen. Her hair was bobbed, thick and 
curly. Through the dark curls, when she removed a 
little red velvet cap, her scalp gleamed white. There 
was about her hair that wonderful perfume a girl’s 
hair has when it is cared for attentively. Her eyes 
were the eyes of a lynx—large, dark, wise, with a 
wisdom that one knew was not always of things 
pure. When, at times, she looked at Murray, a 
dreamy, alluring light played in them. 

I muttered to myself, “The eyes are the windows 
of the soul—some soul!” 

Murray had introduced Craig as “Mr. Kimball” 
and myself as “Mr. James.” But Lois was most in¬ 
terested in Murray, although I could see that 
nothing we said or did escaped her watchful eyes. I 
noticed she was the kind of girl who, when she talks 
with one, has to touch one’s hand or coat sleeve or 
fool with a button on one’s coat. 

Her suit was a grayish sport tweed, knickers and a 
rakish cape to match—and with a scarlet scarf and 
cap she was good enough to advertise the best golf 
balls, or hosiery, or health builder. One could pre- 


12 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

sumably have a mighty good time with the alarming 
Miss Lois. 

“You must join us to-night, Murray; just a few 
in the party. Don’t say you can’t come. I’ve told, 
the rest I would bring you along,” she coaxed. She 
had Murray by the arm and with face looking up 
pleadingly, winsomely, I think was putting it over 
by her sheer personality. 

I heard footsteps back of me, and as I turned I 
heard a very gentle but determined little girl asking 
Murray a question about the next scene. There was 
nothing for Lois to do but to wait for another time 
for her answer. 

“Do I appear on the floor of the ballroom during 
the hold-up scene or not, Murray?” asked the 
newcomer. 

“Why, I thought we might get a little mystery 
out of not having you there—but taking a fore¬ 
ground of you on the balcony—to cut in, if we want 
to, when we see the picture assembled.” 

“Why not take that scene both ways, then?” 

“What are you trying to do, Angela—steal my one 
pretty scene?” asked Lois quickly. Those dark 
eyes of hers could flash, too. 

“When it comes to stealing, there are other things 
one can steal besides scenes,” purred Angela. 

Murray diverted the clash, dexterously I thought, 
by introducing Craig and myself to Angela. 

Lois was pretty, but Angela was of the type of 
beauty that I, in common with some other millions 
of screen fans, admired most. Her hair glistened 
like golden strands when the lights of the spots fell 
on it; her complexion was radiant; and her eyes 
were the kind that would make one feel uncomfort- 



A SUPER-REGENERATIVE GHOST 13 


able if one possessed a guilty secret. She opened 
them wide and looked you through and through with 
an eager, amiable glance. 

She was gowned in a blue evening creation that 
enhanced the blue of her eyes, and her beautiful 
arms and shoulders were the most perfectly moulded 
I had ever seen. It was no wonder that people 
loved her in pictures. She was winsome. 

“The script isn’t quite clear about that dark 
scene,” she went on. “And when I was reading it 
over, I thought, why not take it both ways, while 
we have the set. Then when you cut the picture 
you can play it whichever way you get the most 
drama. I—I didn’t want to break in on anyone— 
but-” 

“It’s a good twist, Angela. Yes; take it both 
ways. Then we’ve played safe.” 

“Either way, it’ll be my scene, though,” gloated 
Lois. 

But Angela was content. She hadn’t wanted to 
break in on anyone. . . . 

A few moments later, Angela and Murray, Craig 
and myself were sauntering down toward another 
set when a slender young man in puttees, visibly 
upset, bustled up to Murray. 

“What in the devil is going on in this confounded 
shop? I can’t leave a set over night. In the prop, 
room, the carpenter shop, all over it’s the same 
way!” 

“Sh-h!” cautioned Murray with a quick look 
about. “You’ll get the others the same way as your¬ 
self, Hal. We’ve had enough bad luck. Cool down, 
old man—and walk over back of these flats and tell 
me the latest.” 




14 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“Why, last night,” the excited one exclaimed, “I 
locked the studio myself—even locked the night 
watchman off the stage floor! And when I looked 
at the ballroom set this morning, it looked like a 
scrambled egg! You can’t match up your scenes, 
I’m afraid—or at least it will take me until after 
lunch to get that set back. I’ve got to take the set 
photograph and go over the whole thing and restore 
it!” 

Murray swore softly and ran his fingers through 
his hair. 

“That’s Halleck, technical and art director,” he 
informed us as the man strode off to straighten 
things out. “Now, what’s all that? More table 
tipping? Another couple of hours lost! Every¬ 
thing stops—but the overhead!” 

Murray gave a quick exhibition of the exigencies 
of picture making. In ten minutes he had everyone 
working on something; it was not what he wanted, 
but the time was not a dead loss. 

Kennedy and I employed the time getting better 
acquainted with the other members of the cast and 
crew, and finally drifted back to watch Halleck put 
the last deft finishing touches on restoring the set in 
which tables had been overturned, chairs moved, 
veritable miracles of levitation, apparently, per¬ 
formed. 

Seemingly the only thing not disturbed was the 
most delicate of all, the radio apparatus. 

Kennedy and I stood over Murray and Halleck as 
they made sure that the radio was all right. 

“It’s not only a real radio set,” commented Craig, 
“but there’s the latest Armstrong super-regenerative 
receiver.” 


A SUPER-REGENERATIVE GHOST 15 

“Yes,” returned Halleck. “You know a serial, 
after all, is ‘kid’ stuff—and the kids know radio. 
We’ve got to be right, or we hear from them!” 

A few moments later the call rang through the 
studio that the director was ready and the members 
of the cast began assembling quickly, ready to work. 
It was noticeable, however, by the little knots and 
groups into which they broke and the lowered voices 
in conversation, that they realized that this com¬ 
pany was working under most unheard-of conditions. 

Murray took a moment to place us behind the two 
cameras in a position where we might miss nothing; 
then, with his assistant, plunged into the work of 
rehearsing the action he expected to shoot, coaching 
individual members of the cast, the thousand and 
one things which I now realized even under ordinary 
circumstances drove a director to distraction. I 
could not but admire Murray for the way he handled 
things under the exceptional stress. Such a man 
was a splendid C. 0. 

Gradually he had things arranged until finally, 
almost before I knew it, I heard his call, “Camera!” 

The dance was on, the radio was supposedly out 
of commission and one of the boys was tinkering 
with it, while another started the phonograph. Out¬ 
side the lightning was preparing. Beyond the 
camera lines Lois and the two hold-up men were 
ready to break in, at their cue. 

Suddenly, from the supposedly broken-down, use¬ 
less radio set, which, of course, was not actually out 
of commission, came a faint voice out of the loud¬ 
speaker. 

As if electrified, everybody stopped. 

The voice grew louder, more distinct. 


16 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“That medium and her daughter drove me insane 
for my money!” 

Involuntarily everyone looked toward Angela. 

“Oh . . . Murray!” she cried, clinging to him. 
“Who or what is trying to drive vie insane? I can’t 
stand it! It is terrible!” 

Kennedy leaped over and began a hasty examina¬ 
tion of the radio apparatus. 

Suddenly it began talking again. It was the same 
voice again, with a slight Irish brogue. 

“Kennedy—it is a wor-rld ye know nothing of in 
which I am! And this is as high above your science 
as Almighty God!” 

Lois at the name of “Kennedy” gave Craig a 
quick glance, and with a satirical smile lowered her 
eyes. 

Little Angela was pale, even under her make-up, 
and trembling. 


Ill 


SLANDER IN THE AIR 

During the early afternoon I looked with interest 
about the stage floor at the other sets. 

One in particular caught my attention. It seemed 
to be the interior of the saloon of a house boat. 

“It’s a reproduction to match up with a real house 
boat, The Sea Vamp, we have out at Peconic on 
Long Island for exteriors. We’ve got a scout cruiser 
out there, too, and a flying boat for stunts in a later 
episode. You see, we take the interiors in the 
studio.” 

“Peconic?” repeated Kennedy. “That’s near the 
Garland House.” 

“Not far. I wrote the story and script myself, 
out there, and when we came to take the picture, 
the company decided we could work it best with the 
interiors here in the studio and the exteriors out 
there, really, in the actual country where the story 
is laid.” 

Murray paused a moment, glanced at his watch, 
then resumed. “I’ll be through in half an hour. I 
want you to go out there with me. There are some 
people you ought to meet, people who have a con¬ 
nection with Angela’s life. It’s only a few hours 
from the city. I’ll drag you out in my car. Angela 
will go, most likely. Her mother, Selena Arnold, 

17 


18 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

has remained at the Garland House—not far from 
Peconic.” 

“Sentiment?” I asked. 

Murray shrugged. “Maybe just good business. 
That’s for Kennedy to find out.” 

The work of the day was soon finished, the cast 
dismissed with the call for the morning, the day’s 
take stowed away in the dark room in cans, neatly 
taped as a warning, to be developed at the labora¬ 
tory—possibly to show some more “spirit movies.” 

We were about to leave in Murray’s car from the 
front entrance of the studio when Lois came out and 
stood beside the car for a few moments, chatting. 

I felt that not only was Lois Gregory the “vamp” 
in “Radio Romance,” but that she might be the 
“other woman” as far as the little romance of Mur¬ 
ray and Angela was concerned. At any rate, there 
could be little doubt of Angela’s reaction when Lois 
was near him. 

“It’s so hot to-day,” murmured Lois fanning in¬ 
effectually with a little lace handkerchief, “I could 
climb in with you if you didn’t have a full car.” 

“Look who’s here!” Murray waved as a roadster 
purred out of the alley beside the studio. “Hello, 
Halleck. Going to take the air?” 

The roadster pulled up just back of us. “You 
said it! Going to take Lois? No?” Then, to her: 
“Maybe you’ll hop in with me?” 

“Where are you going?” 

“I don’t know—fast—but not too far.” 

“Let’s go!” 

“Keep an eye on the sets to-night, Halleck,” 
Murray shouted back as he shifted into high. 



SLANDER IN THE AIR 19 

“Right-o!” waved Halleck, the roadster now mov¬ 
ing slowly. 

The air was hot, but the rush of it was cooling. I 
felt better and said so. “Everyone in both the cast 
and the crew seems demoralized.” 

“Yes ... if we could all get away and have 
things clear up, we’d be better for it,” returned 
Murray. A moment later he turned to Angela, who 
was with him in the front seat of the sport car. 
“Does your mother feel any more cordial to you, 
Angela?” he asked. 

“N-no, Murray, I’m afraid not. . . . Last night 
Tom, our old colored butler out there, called me up 
and told me the wildest^tale about seeing old Mr. 
Garland’s ghost walking in the hall, before Mother’s 
room, and shaking a long, bony finger toward her 
door. I asked him what the ghost did—but all I 
got was a flood of dialect. As near as I could make 
out, Tom beat it. It sounded like a vaudeville act 
—but it’s a tragedy for me. I think Mother is in 
serious danger—don’t you?” 

“I’m afraid I do,” agreed Murray reluctantly. 

“Would you mind telling me all about your 
mother’s estrangement?” inquired Kennedy, leaning 
forward between them. 

“You think it’s a direct attempt to involve Angela 
in it with her mother?” queried Murray. 

Kennedy did not answer directly. “It’s best for 
me to know all these things before I meet her. I 
may be able to help you more.” 

“Mr. Kennedy,” confided Angela, “somehow I 
have a great deal of confidence in you, with us. You 
seem to encourage me.” 

“That’s very kind of you to say,” prompted Craig. 


20 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“Yet I—I can’t talk very much about the differ¬ 
ence that has come up between Mother and myself; 
it is too painful to me. . . . But this litigation over 
the will, and the publicity from it, is doing me no 
good among picture fans. They like to idealize us; 
we should have no troubles or worries. . . . 

“I have asked Mother to drop the whole thing. 
We have enough for our wants”—with a smile— 
“but Mother is a fighter and she intends to get the 
property my stepfather has left her. In a way I 
can’t blame her, I suppose, but it’s hard on me. . . . 
I miss her companionship, her help, her advice 
—even when I buy my costumes for pictures. Oh, 
Mr. Kennedy, I just miss—Mother!” 

We were quiet for some time afterward, then the 
conversation turned to the scenery, the road, almost 
everything that was not uppermost in our minds. 

It was well along in the afternoon as we ap¬ 
proached Bayhead, the county seat, on the road to 
Peconic. 

Murray slowed up his pace and from time to time 
began making remarks back at us, leading up to the 
object he had in mind of our visit out there. 

“Now, there is Lurie, James Lurie, the lawyer, 
and executor under the will. I think you ought to 
talk to him. He’s right here in Bayhead, the town 
we are coming to.” 

Kennedy agreed and we pulled up a few feet past 
the post-office “block,” over which hung the shingle 
on the second floor of the firm of Lurie & Randall. 
Then I recollected that they were the foremost real 
estate attorneys of the county. 

“I think you might keep under cover—at first,” 
hesitated Murray. 





SLANDER IN THE AIR 


21 


“My idea,” agreed Kennedy, who was always 
ready with an excuse that would start a conversa¬ 
tion. “Jameson and I are in the hotel business. 
We’re seeking to lease an inn where we can cater to 
the automobile trade.” 

Lurie may have been advanced, but he was no 
doddering octogenarian. Kennedy’s mention of the 
hotel business and the automobile, accompanied by 
a covert hint that he knew how to run a car across 
the border and get back with that which made the 
hotel business profitable, called forth a sly twinkle 
in the almost clerical face of the somewhat portly 
attorney. 

Combined with the caution of the attorney was 
now the salesmanship of the real estate agent and 
there could be no mistake about the intent of Lurie’s 
remarks concerning a certain illicit occupation 
known as rum-running, which made the profession 
of landlord the more attractive here than elsewhere 
by reason of the activity of those who go down 
to the sea in ships. 

Lurie consulted his lists, but it was really from 
his own head that he tried to sell us two or three 
leases, in each case Kennedy picking a flaw or an 
undesirable feature. 

It was not long before the conversation was 
switched to the old Garland House. 

“That would probably be the ideal place for you,” 
remarked Lurie. “The trouble there is that it’s tied 
up in the courts, just now. Do you by any chance 
recall the circumstances? You must have read in 
the papers about the ‘Garland Ghosts.’ ” 

“Oh, surely. It might even be that a ghost would 
be an asset to a hotel!” 


22 . CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

I 

“Certainly the publicity,” returned Lurie. 

“Just what is the state of affairs there?” 

“Well,” Lurie replied, bringing the tips of five 
fingers in juxtaposition to the tips of five other 
fingers. “The surrogate has so far refused probate 
of the will of old Mr. Garland. Mr. Garland was 
my friend. I drew the will and am the executor, 
by the way. I do not think there is any legal flaw 
in the paper I drew—naturally. But it has been 
claimed that Mr. Garland was not competent to 
make a will—or even to marry—on account of his 
mental condition. 

“You see, gentlemen, it has placed me in a rather 
ticklish and embarrassing position. I cannot exactly 
be expected to impugn the sanity of my former 
friend and client. Nor can I conscientiously press a 
claim which may savor of adventuring and have the 
color of fraud perpetrated upon a credulous old man. 
Frankly, I am between the devil and the deep sea; 
damned if I do and damned if I don’t. I have de¬ 
cided to keep my hands off and let justice take its 
course.” 

“But who is back of the contention before the 
surrogate?” 

Lurie smiled. “Young man, if I could answer 
that, do you suppose I would be sitting on the 
fence?” 

Kennedy nodded back, knowingly, and Lurie rose 
and paced with his hands flapping his coat tails. “If 
the contention before the surrogate is upheld, it will 
throw the estate back on the law of inheritance. 
The nearest relatives would inherit. But—there 
are no relatives—known. In that case, the property 
would revert to the state.” 



SLANDER IN THE AIR 


23 


“What good would that do anyone?” 

“None but the successful bidder at auction; per¬ 
haps not to him.” 

“I’ll look over the other places, though,” closed 
Craig rising to go. 

Lurie had evidently remained at his office only on 
the chance of making a sale to us. He also took his 
hat and clumped down the stairs with us. Outside 
he caught sight of Angela and Murray in the car. 
With surprising spryness he was over near them, his 
hat off, nodding to Murray but with interest cen¬ 
tered on Angela. Kennedy and I stood aside, for¬ 
gotten. We had neither to affirm nor deny our con¬ 
nection with them. 

“A client of my partner, Randall, owns the Sea 
Vamp which you have chartered, you know. I’ve 
been thinking I might purchase it myself from him 
after your picture company has finished with it. If 
I do, may I count on you, Miss Angela, as a guest 
at my houseboat warming?” 

Policy, no doubt, dictated a murmured accept¬ 
ance. Angela soon swung us about to other sub¬ 
jects. But I retained a picture of Lurie’s animation 
and the twinkle in his eyes which left my finite 
mind only one impression. The old gentleman cer¬ 
tainly loved the ladies. 

“Now, just one more visit,” bustled Murray, with¬ 
out comment, as the attorney swung down the street 
at least twenty years mentally younger, “Dr. Newlin, 
local physician, member of the Psychical Research 
Society—the National Geographic Society, I sup¬ 
pose—all those things that a provincial medico has 
printed after his name when the local paper comes 
to his obituary.” 


24 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“Why Dr. Newlin?” I asked. 

“Craig ought to see him because he’s the investi¬ 
gator who was commissioned—at his own request— 
by the Psychical Research Society to investigate the 
phenomena at the Garland House last year and 
gained some national prominence by his report that 
Selena Arnold was—er—helping out the spirits 
when the phenomena didn’t come fast enough to 
suit the case. Now he says that these present 
phenomena are genuine, he believes.” 

“How does he know r anything about them?” asked 
Craig. 

Murray smiled. “Ever try to keep anything secret 
in a township like this? Everybody out here knows 
about the face in the films and the voices over the 
radio. They knew it the first time we came out 
last week to shoot exteriors. I guess you know the 
grape-vine gossip of the small town.” 

Dr. Newlin proved to be one of those country 
doctors who always have time to talk. In fact, in 
connection with a country druggist and a pad of 
prescription blanks, I feel sure that a good conversa¬ 
tion would be had by all. 

Kennedy’s interest in psychical research was as 
deep with Dr. Newlin as his ardor to engage in the 
hotel business had been with Lawyer Lurie. Newlin 
was equally eager to talk on his hobby. 

What chiefly seemed to interest Craig was the 
validity of the present phenomena. 

“Gentlemen,” remarked Newlin, in a low voice, 
fixing an eye on us as of a prophet handing down 
an oracle, “here are two things to think about. You 
picture people all know as well as I do, better, how 
supersensitive is the negative raw stock of films. 


SLANDER IN THE AIR 


25 


You know the perfection of lenses, especially some 
of the German lenses. I believe you use the most 
improved camera, the Wells & Crowell. Am I 
right?” Murray nodded. “Then is it strange that 
the lens and the film and the box should pick up 
what the human eye may not see, what may be in 
rays of fight beyond the mortal eye?” 

Receiving no answer, he went on: “Again, let me 
say, there is the Armstrong super-regenerative set 
in radio—one hundred thousand times more sensi¬ 
tive than even the regenerative set, which is itself 
on a plane entirely beyond, higher, different from 
the human ear. Let me put it to you in a sentence: 
Science is every day leading us closer to the world 
beyond!” 

“Are you a radio fan?” questioned Craig. 

“Oh, yes.” 

“Do you send, also?” 

“I can—but I don’t.” He smiled as we parted. 
“That is one case in which I believe those are more 
blessed who receive than those who give!” 


IV 


THE FIERY VAMPIRE 

“I forgot to tell you,” remarked Murray as we 
started on the last lap of our journey, “that at the 
Garland House, Garland’s room has been left un¬ 
touched since his death.” 

“Mother thought so much of Mr. Garland,” ex¬ 
plained Angela. “She likes to sit in the room, just 
as he left it. She says she seems very close to him.” 

“I thought you would be interested, want to see 
it,” added Murray a bit apologetically, as if to justify 
his mention on some other grounds than a medium’s 
feelings. “Aside from his alleged insanity and the 
spirit stories, a lot of questions must arise. They 
have with me. Did he die naturally, after all? 
Could he have been poisoned? If so, how—by 
whom?” 

Kennedy nodded. “We’ve got to determine those 
things first—may even have to exhume his body be¬ 
fore we get through and start all over again, as if 
it were a fresh case.” 

The old inn, the Garland House, was a quaint, 
ancient, rambling frame building. It had been built 
in the first place because it was at a narrow “carry” 
for the canoes of the Indians between Peconic and 
Shinnecock. One part of it actually dated or was 
reputed to date back to the seventeenth century. 
It was more than a mere roadhouse; it was an insti- 

26 


THE FIERY VAMPIRE 27 

tution, historic, a fascinating combination of the 
old and the new. 

As we pulled up under the porte cochere, Murray 
jammed on the brakes and hopped out quickly. 
While we were getting out, I could see him bowing 
to a sweet-faced elderly lady sitting reading on the 
porch. 

Angela waved her hand, but her greeting was 
rather coolly received, I thought. Nevertheless, she 
let it make no difference in her verbal greeting. 

“Well, Mother, how do you feel to-day? Better?” 
Leaning over, she kissed her mother and patted her 
gently on the arm. 

Watching, I could see Mrs. Garland’s back grow¬ 
ing straighter and her face more stern. It was very 
hard work to be angry with Angela. 

As we became better acquainted, she seemed to 
take a great liking to Kennedy. He was assiduously 
humoring her to talk on her favorite subject, the 
occult. 

“Angela,” she softened at length. “Call Tom and 
have him see about dinner for your friends. After 
the ride they must be famished.” 

Angela walked down the wide veranda, Murray 
following close behind, glad to be with her. A 
moment later I could hear her giving directions to 
the butler, who seemed to be overjoyed not only to 
have someone around, but that it was Miss Angela. 

I thought as we talked to Mrs. Arnold Garland 
that it was easy to see where Angela obtained her 
striking features and hair. Her mother was a beau¬ 
tiful woman in her sixties, with a quiet, reserved 
manner and dressed in extremely good taste. She 


28 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

showed her deep interest in Angela only when 
Angela was not looking. 

“With such air as you have here, Mrs. Garland/’ 
remarked Kennedy, “you should enjoy the best of 
health. I was very sorry to hear your daughter tell 
me that you did not feel so well.” 

“Oh, Mr. Kennedy, I’m not going to bore you with 
a tiresome health lecture. But I am exceedingly 
nervous. I hope to get over it soon. Perhaps the 
trouble, settling up the estate and the queer happen¬ 
ings about the Garland House, have had a lot to do 
with it.” 

I wondered why Kennedy was so solicitous about 
the health of a stranger. Consequently I began to 
observe her narrowly, though not openly. I was 
struck with her eyes—large, lustrous, almost staring, 
eyes such as I usually associate with a strongly pas¬ 
sionate nature. Or was it a mark of physical or 
mental disease? 

“At night I suffer so. I wake from sleep feeling 
so oppressed and weak. It seems as if some invisible 
hand were pressing on my throat and chest. I try 
to scream—and I can’t. Mr. Kennedy, I know there 
is an antagonistic presence exerting a malign influ¬ 
ence about me! I must use my will power to beat 
it down!” 

“Are you sure, Mrs. Garland? It may be merely 
the state of your health, your nerves.” 

“But, Mr. Kennedy, I have seen it—hovering 
about me, not once but many times. I have even 
gone into a trance and made it materialize. I know 
what I am talking about.” She nodded her head 
decidedly. “I know it because I have—touched— 
the ectoplasm!” 


THE FIERY VAMPIRE 


29 


Kennedy shot a glance at me. I knew that this 
was a case he would never lay down, now, until he 
had carried it through. Ectoplasm was his chief 
hobby in his study of neo-spiritism. 

“Then, Mr. Kennedy,” she volunteered, with a 
smile, “after I am wakened, I cannot get to sleep 
again. I hear everything. I feel everything. I 
think I have heard the song of every mosquito on 
the south shore! I am a patroness of the mosquito 
extermination commission, now!” 

Kennedy smiled with her. Pie had quite won his 
way, both on the porch and in the private parlor of 
the presumptive proprietress of the house, where she 
undertook to show him some letters from the most 
eminent psychical researchers in the country to 
offset the reports of Dr. Newlin. This was, as I 
learned later, just the opportunity Kennedy had 
desired. 

We left the dining room about fading twilight 
and for a time sat all together on the wide veranda, 
a very uncomfortable group. For it was one of those 
sizzling nights, moonless, and humid. Every once 
in a while I surreptitiously stole my hand through 
the back of the old porch rocker in which I sat to 
pull my wet shirt from my shoulders. I was per¬ 
spiring down to my feet. 

“If this thing—and the weather—don’t clear up 
pretty soon, Murray, I’ll be prostrated!” 

“Why don’t you get a good night’s rest, Angela? 
There’s nothing like a rest for worry!” 

Angela stood up, a slender, ethereal girl outlined 
by a quick flash of heat lightning. 

“I really feel exhausted. ... I think if I may be 
excused I will retire.” 


30 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Murray had risen. “Brace up, little girl. Our 
whole future depends on your strength. Kennedy 
and I are going to look out for you, to-night—and I 
want you to sleep—dear.” 

“I'll try, Murray. You are so good! . . . Will 
somebody walk down that long dark hall with me? 
I wish Tom hadn’t told me!” 

Murray put his arm about the slender waist. 
They ascended the old colonial staircase that way 
and a moment later he rejoined us. 

Adjoining rooms and a bath had been assigned to 
Kennedy, Murray, and myself further down and on 
the other side of the hall. None of us were in a hurry 
to disrobe. I stood by the window, trying to capture 
what little air there was and it seemed as if I had 
never seen such a dark night. 

“It feels like the hot calm before a terrific thunder 
shower,” I remarked. 

Suddenly, from the corridor, from the still night 
outdoors there came a piercing shriek, the shriek of 
a woman. 

“What’s that?” demanded Kennedy, leaping from 
a window seat in our combined living room. 

“My God—it’s Angela!” blurted Murray, seizing 
his coat and dashing into the corridor. 

Kennedy and I hurried after him. At her door 
Murray did not even pause to knock. He tried it; 
it was locked. He looked questioningly at us. Ken¬ 
nedy thrust him aside and with a quick shove and 
upward push hurled himself at the door. 

We could hear a series of shrieks, then a heavy 
thud as of a body falling against some piece of 
furniture. 


THE FIERY VAMPIRE 31 

Another of his expert thrusts at a locked door and 
Kennedy was inside. 

“Walter, switch on the lights!” 

The room was in total darkness. Suddenly 
another flash of lightning accompanied by distant 
rumbling thunder lighted it up. We could see 
Angela lying very still on the floor against a wicker 
chaise longue near the window. 

“Craig, there are three lights in this room and not 
one of them will Light!” 

“Find the switch!” 

“I tried the switch first!” 

Murray by this time had lifted up Angela, who 
clung to him, half conscious, moaning, crying. 

“The devil! Kennedy—look—by that tree! 

What's that?” 

We crowded toward the window. 

Quickly darting in the shadows, across an open 
space between the shadows of two great oaks, swoop¬ 
ing down in wide curves, rising, swirling away, then 
back in hideous bewilderment was some quickly 
flashing, mysteriously dreadful creature. 

< “A bat—a gigantic bat!” 

“But, Craig, I never saw a fiery bat before—in 
nature.” 

“Nor nature, either! Some human hand—with a 
devilish intent—contrived a way to hurt Angela. 
Never mind—she needs us now more than that bat 
does. Here—carry her down to her mother's room— 
at the end of the hall, in the wing.” 

We laid Angela gently on a couch. Kennedy ap¬ 
plied restoratives. Gradually the color came into 
her cheeks. 

“Take it away!” moaned Angela. 




32 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“Just keep quiet. You are all right now—safe. It 
was nothing. Someone tried to frighten you.” 

She opened her eyes and when she saw the lights 
and Kennedy she smiled. 

“My lights wouldn’t work, Murray. That thing— 
in the room—kept swooping at me—in the dark. I 
was frightened. I must have fainted. Where did 
it go?” 

“Stay here with her, Murray,” whispered Craig. 
“Don’t let her get excited, or get up.” 

Outside Kennedy and I ran out of the shadow of 
the inn on the age-old turf. 

“There it is!” I shouted. 

Suddenly the weird creature seemed to swoop as 
if in desperate agony. It fell—to the earth. 

As Kennedy turned it over, trembling, panting, 
with his foot, we saw that it was indeed a bat, a 
gigantic bat. 

“What makes it shine?” I asked. 

“The same thing that killed it—some kind of 
luminous paint!” 

In the office Kennedy paused to scribble on a 
telegraph blank. “Walter, see that the night clerk 
gets this over to the telegraph office at once. I’ll 
go back to Angela and Murray.” 

I read the message. It was to a private investi¬ 
gating agency which Kennedy often used. It gave 
orders to them to delve into the past of Halleck, to¬ 
gether with sufficient information for them to 
identify him. 

When I got back I saw that Kennedy, as physi¬ 
cian, had improvised a sort of laboratory in the pri¬ 
vate bath of Selena Garland. Whatever he had done 
had worked. For Angela was more like herself. 



THE FIERY VAMPIRE 33 

I waited my chance, then slipped into the bath 
with him. 

“I got it off,” I whispered. 

He glanced hastily at the mirrors to see that we 
could not be reflected. Then he picked up a small 
bottle on a glass shelf. 

“Citronella—for mosquitoes—smell it!” he 

whispered. 

I did. 

“What’s wrong with it?” 

“That’s what I’d like to know,” he answered 
laconically, dropping it in his pocket securely corked. 


y 


THE EYES HAVE IT 

Back in the city the following morning, whither 
Kennedy wasted no time in going but took the early 
train, leaving Murray and Angela to drive back in 
the car, Craig plunged into work at once in his 
laboratory where for years he had been gathering 
nearly everything known to man in the warfare of 
science against crime. 

Just at present it seemed to be the citronella he 
had taken from the glass shelf in the bath of Selena 
Garland that interested him most, to the exclusion 
of everything else. It was not ten minutes before 
he was surrounded by an array of test tubes and 
beakers and other mysterious glassware, testing, 
analyzing, catalyzing, cooking over Bunsen burners 
at a rate that must have struck terror into the heart 
of an uninitiated criminal and despair into the brain 
of the initiated. 

I busied myself arranging my notes of the more 
dramatic high lights of the case against the time 
when I knew the Start would expect its exclusive 
story of the crime. 

Finally, Kennedy seemed to have gone as far as 
he could without the aid of time in his analysis. 

“What did you take from the Garland House in 
that big bundle, Craig, the family silver?” I asked, 

34 


THE EYES HAVE IT 


35 


for I had been burning with curiosity, though I 
knew too well to interrupt him until such time 
as he had unburdened his mind of the tests he had 
planned. 

“It didn’t happen to be the family plate; only the 
family album and the family Bible.” 

“What do you want with them?” 

“Look at that album carefully; only family por¬ 
traits, it seems. And in five minutes tell me what 
you have found. I must go back to this distillation.” 

With that Kennedy resumed his attentive watch¬ 
ing of reactions. I started to get acquainted with 
the whole Garland family. Some of them had been 
fairly good-looking. But the only beauties were 
two new photographs of Selena and Angela. 

The old hotel man must have been a methodical 
old duffer and had the time to be so. Each photo¬ 
graph was named and labeled, and you knew the 
relation to the family of each original. However, 
as near as I could make out, they were a family of 
dead ones. It even told where they were interred 
and when. I thought it was a good idea—if a family 
must have an album. 

By the time I had reached the last portrait, which 
was a beautiful cabinet of Angela, it dawned on me 
that there were no pictures of Garland himself, that 
is, no adult pictures. But there were three vacant 
spaces, following some pictures evidently taken in 
baby days and adolescence. I wondered a bit at 
that. 

“Look here, Craig. Where are the old man’s pic¬ 
tures? I think there have been some. Whoever 
took them out has torn the corners of the pockets 
in which they fit—as if in a hurry.” 



36 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

I felt rather proud of my detective ability and 
waited for Kennedy’s approval. Looking up, I 
found that he had finished his test, whatever it was, 
and had been waiting for me. 

“It took you some time to find that out, Walter,” 
he smiled. “Yes, they have been taken, and I think 
if we could only find those photographs we would 
learn something by a comparison with these cuttings 
from Murray’s negatives that the laboratory has 
sent me in the mail.” 

He held up a handful of negative clippings, a few 
frames in each, and a letter asking if he desired the 
complete negative rolls. 

“You know the spirit photograph fraud of what 
some of our lecturers call The leading psychic pho¬ 
tographers’ is one of the cruelest pieces of trickery 
that has ever been foisted on a heart-broken and 
bereaved public. It is the most despicable of all 
the fraudulent spiritist phenomena,” 

I was holding a negative film cutting. “First of 
all,” explained Kennedy, “I can find the line of the 
double exposure. What actually happened must 
have been that the camera was masked, and roll 
after roll of the five hundred foot negative stock has 
been exposed.” 

“Exposed—to w T hat?” 

“Re-photography of old Garland in his two poses 
—against black velvet in a shape to coincide with 
the shape of the mask over the lens. It reminds me 
of a spirit photograph, a print I was once asked to 
examine. It showed the screen marks always asso¬ 
ciated with a half-tone illustration! No photograph 
had been available for use and the spirit pho¬ 
tographer had used a half-tone cut from a book, 


THE EYES HAVE IT 37 

printed on coated paper. The screen marks be¬ 
trayed it!” 

“But what makes the face look so—ghostly?” 

“Simple. The degree of visibility—or materializa¬ 
tion—is determined by the photographer. It’s not 
wise for the spirit face to be too clearly defined. Just 
a bit out of focus—or a slight movement of the 
object during exposure will do in a photograph. Or 
he can move the camera. Either will do with a 
movie camera, masked. Out of focus is enough, 
however. 

“And they’re great fakers. Some say the spirits 
only affect plates, not films; that the hand camera 
can’t catch them! The trouble is that it is entirely 
too easy to catch the makers unless they use their 
own plates and boxes. As to films, how about these? 
Aren’t these ‘spirits’ stopped, caught on films?” 

I was following Kennedy avidly, for I saw a 
“story” in his remarks. But he did not propose to 
pause in massing his evidence. “Here’s something 
else. The family record in that Bible has been re¬ 
cently tampered with. There have been some 
erasures, with a certain chemical I can guess at, and 
some additions.” 

“What are you going to do about it?” 

“Make some tests with ultraviolet light such as 
I use sometimes when questioned checks come to 
me to be examined. But I am working on some¬ 
thing far more important just now—the poison, the 
same I believe, that killed old man Garland.” 

“What!” I almost jumped. “That’s a great 
story. I thought he committed suicide.” 

“Just be patient a little while. Selena is being 
slowly doctored—by the same thing. I am con- 


38 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

vinced. Only, we’ll be able to save her. I intend 
to return to the Garland House as soon as I can now 
and give her an antidote.” 

He turned to his beakers and test tubes. “If I 
had any doubt, I might delay long enough to make 
a test on a rabbit or a rat. But I have completed my 
chemical analysis of that citronella. If you care to 
look through this new quartz lens spectroscope to 
check up on it, I suppose I could take time to ex¬ 
plain to you what you are looking at-” 

“But what is it? What have you found?” 

“Scopolamine.” 

“Scopolamine? Why, that’s the drug they use in 
this twilight sleep, isn’t it?” 

“Yes. But properly used scopolamine, hyoscine, 
all these things can be made a deadly poison, too— 
mydriatic alkaloids, they are called. One of the 
most obvious effects is on the eyes. They make the 
eyes expanding and bulging, sometimes almost like 
that disease exophthalmic goiter, eyes that might 
make one look and seem demented. You remember 
everyone gossiped about the look in old Garland’s 
eyes? You saw Selena’s eyes, yourself. If you 
ask me to vote on the subject I would say that 
the eyes have it!” 

I was astounded, speechless. Old Garland had 
actually been poisoned—not a suicide. Might it be 
that Selena was not only being poisoned, but her 
mind affected? 

“Run over to the studio while I’m preparing the 
antidote and getting ready,” asked Kennedy. “See 
what is going on and bring Murray back with you.” 

While I waited for Murray, who had come in 
alone, leaving Angela out there with her mother, I 



THE EYES HAVE IT 39 

chatted with a camera man I had met before. 
Halleck was about, but I did not see Lois. 

It did not take long for me to sense that there 
had been some gossip at the studio. Studios are 
gossipy places. One must walk the chalk mark, 
guard every look and word and gesture. It is easy 
to be misinterpreted. It is a matter of being as quiet 
as an oyster or bestowing smiles and favors on all 
alike. 

“Some of these girls can get away with murder!” 

“Why do you say that?” I asked the camera man. 

“Well, we’re all nutty I must admit, with so much, 
funny business going on—but that’s no reason why 
Halleck, who is supposed to be guarding the sets and 
the company’s interests, needs to be locked in here 
with Lois!” 

I laughed. “Perhaps you’re envious!” 

The camera man laughed. “I wouldn’t mind 
being locked up with her, that’s a fact. But—well, 
I’m jealous—not of Hal—I’m jealous of the reputa¬ 
tion of the movies. Foolish monkey-business that 
you find among some bankers—and some parsons 
for that matter—well, when it’s found it’s over¬ 
looked and forgotten. But it’s remembered for all 
time when it’s connected with the movies. It ain’t 
fair—and it ain’t fair to give ’em a chance to say 
things!” 

I agreed with him and as Murray was ready, we 
rode over to the laboratory again. 

“I’ve telephoned Peconic that we’ll be out. 
Angela didn’t come in with you, did she? I’ve 
asked Selena to give me a seance, and I’ve made 
arrangements to have Lurie and Newlin there, too. 
Think up some excuse. I want to take Halleck and 


40 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Lois out.” Kennedy briefly outlined to Murray his 
discoveries, especially of the scopolamine in the 
citronella. “And, under cover of the seance, also, 
I want to give Selena an antidote.” 

“I think we ought to learn something,” scowled 
Murray tersely. 

“Yes. I just got a report on your tech.” Ken¬ 
nedy waved a tissue flimsy, such as I knew he re¬ 
ceived often from his investigating agent. “Halleck 
seems to be somewhat of a drifter. I learn that in 
the early days he was a barker at side shows and in 
a dime museum, then took up an act himself, some 
cheap magic, I suppose. Later, he drifted into the 
odd-lots, the back-lots, of Wall Street, and was a 
barker for a gigantic fake in a small way, the old 
get-rich-quick wireless stock selling, harpooning the 
suckers. Then came selling movie stock—and here 
he is making pictures.” 

“Well,” considered Murray, “he’s a darn good 
tech.” 


VI 


ECTOPLASM 

At the old Garland House again we found Lurie 
in the parlor talking with Selena and explaining 
with great patience to the feminine mind the law’s 
delays. He was making a great effort to be legally 
fair and disinterested. 

Dr. Newlin arrived shortly after us and the mo¬ 
ment I saw him in the presence of Selena I felt that 
there was something quite antagonistic between the 
two. I felt it in a remark he made shortly after his 
arrival. 

“I’ve always said that every woman believes that 
if she had half a chance she’d make a great medium 
or a great actress!” 

“They’re mostly right, too,” returned Kennedy 
quietly. 

Murray and Halleck, with the cares of the picture 
company on them, had stuck rather closely on the 
journey. Kennedy had been aloof. That left Lois 
to me, and I had not been averse to accepting her 
companionship. 

I thought Selena Garland a handsome woman 
when I first met her, even though she had been ill 
and distraite , tortured with harassing fears, and not 
inclined to enter into the activities of life about her. 
But to-day she was beautiful. I wondered at it. 

41 


42 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“Doing it on nerves,” whispered Kennedy when I 
made a remark aside. “Wait for the slump 
afterwards.” 

Angela came running down the long porch with a 
smile for all of us. She was just a child and I 
marveled at all she had gone through in her short 
life. Her disposition was mercurial; down in the 
depths one minute, up in the skies the next. I re¬ 
flected that it was a fortunate thing for her. Angela 
stood by her mother talking to us, but it was evident 
that Selena was the field marshal that day. 

She was gowned in a flowing white dress, accentu¬ 
ating the whiteness of her hair. Her big dark eyes 
sparkled and her black lashes and eyebrows set off 
the vividness of the color now in her cheeks. 

“Would you care for a bite to eat first, Mr. Ken¬ 
nedy? I never dine before a seance, but I don’t 
want to punish anyone else.” 

“No—go right ahead with your plans.” 

“Well, then, come with me. I am going to hold 
this seance in a room away from the noises of the 
road and service end of the house. To concentrate 
and have a successful seance there must be quiet 
and a feeling or desire to assist—rather than antago¬ 
nize.” She did not even glance at Dr. Newlin, but 
Kennedy did. “Please don’t be sceptical.” She 
smiled a bit in my direction. 

I wondered why I had been picked on as the 
doubting Thomas of the day. 

The room was dark, and a heavy odor of incense 
hung in it. Dark curtains were drawn at the win¬ 
dows. The atmosphere was a bit tempered from 
the heat outside by reason of its very dimness. It 
was a quite cheerless room, too. In the corner, I 


ECTOPLASM 43 

recall, was an old-fashioned square piano, with some 
music opened in a rack. 

“Angela, dear, I want you to play some sacred 
music for me. I have picked out what I want and 
the order in which I want it.” 

Angela nodded obediently and took her place at 
the piano. I felt that already something in the 
atmosphere curbed her rebellious young soul. 

“Mr. Kennedy, I want the gentlemen to sit so that 
you all can see my chair and my person from all 
sides. I want to show you the simple honesty of my 
manifestations.” 

Kennedy bowed and placed Murray and myself 
in back of her, with Halleck to the other side of 
me. He took up a place in front between Dr. 
Newlin and the lawyer. As we disposed ourselves 
I saw that Lois seemed to gravitate toward Halleck, 
and take a position that brought her between him 
and Lurie, but nearer him. 

Selena was talking about trumpet seances and 
cabinet manifestations, but was reticent about what 
form she expected this to take. 

Seating herself in a little low rocker she leaned 
back and, closing her eyes, relaxed. Her features, 
as nearly as I could make out straining my eyes in 
the artificial darkness, became pinched, finally, and 
her face quite white. It looked almost as if her 
soul had fled on some ethereal journey to the nether 
world. 

“Play ‘Nearer My God to Thee/ Angela. My 
control wants something sacred. The Influences I 
feel would like you all to sing the hymn if you will.” 

It was rather odd sitting there in the dark, listen¬ 
ing to Murray singing an earnest bass, Kennedy 


44 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


obligingly in the tenor, Angela betraying a soprano 
accomplishment I did not know she possessed. Her 
voice was one of the sweetest I have ever heard, only 
it needed training. Lurie’s music was more a deep 
growl. Newlin declined even to move his lips. 
Lois, as I expected, swung a wicked alto. I followed 
with a gentle humming, sticking to the air and ac¬ 
centuating a syllable when I was sure of myself. 
It had been a long time since I had sung that hymn. 

Mrs. Garland’s hands began to rub the arm of the 
chair aimlessly. She was now going under the 
trance. Her respiration seemed difficult. She looked 
as if she w r ere in great physical distress. 

The mystery began to get under my skin. I could 
get nothing from Kennedy’s face. It was immobile 
and betrayed nothing. Murray sat with his mouth 
open. If any of the others felt nervous, they were 
at successful pains to hide it. 

Angela kept on playing hymns and soothing 
music. 

Mrs. Garland began to speak. 

‘There is someone here who must beware of evil! 
My little Priscilla doesn’t make it quite clear . . . 
who it is . . . oh, yes. . . . very muddled, as if 
there might be more than one. Mr. Kennedy, she is 
trying to indicate you . . . Angela, too ... I can’t 
make it out ... oh, but Priscilla, I am trying so 
hard! ... so hard to get it over! . . . 

“Someone else is here, too. Someone wants to 
come to the meeting to convince the world that 
those in the spirit world can materialize and make 
themselves known. . . . Now t . . . very slow music, 
Angela!” 



ECTOPLASM 45 

Selena paused. “Heavens!” ran through my 
mind, “Angela’s playing the ‘Dead March’!” 

From somewhere I felt cold winds blowing about 
me. I could have sworn something touched my 
back. I wished they would lay off fanning my 
ankles. Murray must have been getting cold, too. 
Or was it nervous? He was pulling his coat 
together. Kennedy did nothing but look, staring, 
staring into empty blackness over Selena’s head, 
staring until by a sort of hypnotism he had the 
others staring. I shivered. What was this hanging 
over my head—fine or superfine? 

I almost leaped out of my chair when, out of 
the tail of my eye, I saw—or did I fancy it?—rising 
from behind Mrs. Garland, almost beside me, a 
cloud-like vapor. I was on edge. I could have 
sworn it had begun to assume the shape of a human 
being! What was it I saw? I don’t know—frankly. 

“My God! Old man Garland, himself—leering 
at-” 

It was Kennedy, startled, who spoke, then checked 
himself. 

I heard a stifled cry, a crash of music—most dis¬ 
cordant sounds. Angela had swooned across the 
keyboard. 

Mrs. Garland was lying perfectly still, silent, pale, 
cold, in her chair. 

Kennedy sprang up and seized a glass of water 
on the piano, as Murray leaped toward Angela. 
I knew that as Craig turned away quickly he slipped 
the antidote in the glass. 

“Old man Garland—leering at-” 

Craig’s tense voice re-echoed in my ears. 

What did it mean? 




46 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

Was it Kennedy, with his tongue in his cheek 
at credulity? 

“It must have been the . . . the ectoplasm!” 
Newlin was almost trembling with nervous tension 
and his words stuttered. 

Kennedy coolly switched on the lights. “Yes,” 
he said pointedly. “Some of your researchers have 
suggested a mysterious force; others an ethereal 
substance. The struggle to obtain harmony gave 
birth to a combination of the two theories and the 
present ‘ectoplasm’ theory of spirit manifestations. 
Do you believe that ectoplasm is a plasma of psychic 
origin extruding from the medium?” 

“Y-yes.” It was not hesitation; it was akin to 
fear. 

“Stanley de Brathe, who translated Geley, says 
that analysis of so-called ectoplasm shows the con¬ 
tents to be at least fifty per cent water, some 
sulphur and albumin. He gives the formula as some¬ 
thing resembling C 120 Hi 134 N 218 S 5 0 249 . This for¬ 
mula is not so unfamiliar to the chemist—but he 
won’t call it ectoplasm. I read that a Polish 
scientist has ectoplasm analyses showing the con¬ 
tents as fats and human cellular matter, and the 
appearance like that of w T ell-beaten white of egg. 

“Do you know the French Society found Marthe’s 
ectoplasm nothing more supernatural than gossamer 
veiling and a disgusting mess of regurgitated albu¬ 
minoid matter? Investigation of Neilson in Norway 
showed that his ectoplasm was nothing more than 
shreds of silk gauze which he alternately swallowed 
and regurgitated? Ask some of my friends in the 
magicians’ society of the wonderful tricks of 
swallowing and regurgitation. Come to my labora- 


ECTOPLASM 


47 


tory some day, and I will have present the greatest 
of all of them. The tricks he will do will put to 
shame the best your ectoplasm fakers have ever 
offered—and he makes no supernatural claims.” 

A telephone call that a client was waiting at his 
office tore Lurie loose from the society of Lois. 
Newlin was eager to depart, with a venomous side 
glance at Selena and a wholesome avoidance of 
Kennedy. 

Angela had long since recovered and was with 
Murray. Lois excused herself to go to her room, 
and Halleck remarked that, as long as he was here, 
he felt that he ought to give orders for getting the 
house boat ready for the next group of exteriors. 

As for me, I was trying to figure it all out. Had 
Kennedy staged the seance solely to impress Newlin 
with the futility of all such phenomena? 


YII 


MYSTERY WAVES 

Kennedy, Angela, and myself were in a secluded 
angle of the hotel parlor when the black butler, 
Tom, almost ashen and with thick lips that refused 
to remain in repose, shuffled up. 

“Dey’s somethin’—wrong—about dis yere house, 
Missy,” he stammered. “I done heard ’em an’ seed 
’em at night—but dis yere’s de fust time I ever 
hearn tell o’ daylight spooks!” 

“Why, what’s wrong now, Tom,?” encouraged 
Angela. 

“Ever sence you-all done come out o’ dat sperrit 
room, dey’s been de rappingest noises.” 

“Where?” demanded Kennedy. 

“I dunno—I ’spects dey’s down whar it’s dark— 
in de cellar, sah.” 

“That’s usually where we keep spirits nowadays. 
Did you find out?” 

“Lawdamassy—No! ” Tom had no sense of humor 
or of curiosity, either, as to the future life. 

“Oh—what a house! I wish Mother would leave 
it!” 

I didn’t blame Angela for thinking it was eerie, 
or for being provoked with her mother for not leav¬ 
ing it. While I didn’t normally believe in the su¬ 
pernatural, it must have been disquieting to a 

48 


MYSTERY WAVES 


49 


young and emotional girl capable 'of portraying 
emotions so successfully. 

a What do you think?” she asked. 

“I think somebody is trying to discourage us from 
coming out to Garland House,” countered Craig. 

“They haven’t studied the psychology of your 
mind, then, or of mine, either, for that matter. I 
want to find out what is doing this minute.” 

At that moment we did actually hear a strange 
metallic noise from the direction of the cellar. 
Tom’s knees knocked. 

“Stay here, Angela,” directed Kennedy—then to 
me, as we got out of the room, “Don’t go down from 
the inside. Let us see if we can find an entrance 
from the outside.” 

We cautiously tiptoed off the porch, hoping that 
no one would hear us. Keeping close to the house 
Kennedy finally halted, stooped over and gently 
felt of a cellar window. It was locked. 

“Walter—we’d better get around to the old wing. 
Only watch yourself.” 

Another window was locked also. But he kept 
going until finally he came to a window open, with 
even no screen. He looked at it skeptically. 

“It looks too easy—more like a plant. But I’m 
going in anyhow. Stay here and watch.” 

Needless to say he had not been thirty seconds 
in the cellar before I was in, too. I could never 
have let him go alone. 

I gropingly put my hand out at something in the 
dark—and touched someone. 

“That—you—Craig?” 

“Yes,” he whispered back. “Keep with me. I was 
waiting to see if you would follow. I didn’t want to 


50 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


make a mistake—with too many of us down here— 
after it-—whatever it is!” 

It was pitch dark and that part of the cellar had 
never been concreted. It smelled damp and un¬ 
wholesome as a wet cellar by the salt water always 
smells. 

Craig pulled me up shortly by the arm, leaning 
over close to my ear. “Hear that?” 

“Yes!” I breathed back. 

It sounded like steps, careful steps coming down. 
We waited, but could see nothing. The ghostly 
tread stopped. 

There were noises now from another part of the 
cellar. Was there more than one? 

Suddenly I walked into a bunch of cobwebs hang¬ 
ing from a beam. It brushed my neck above the 
collar., I jumped, a tense example of gooseflesh. 
I thought it was something inhuman. 

“It’s coming nearer, Craig,” I whispered. The 
ghostly steps in the other end of the cellar had 
resumed. “Em ready to grapple IT—if I can!” 

I was on my toes. What did it mean? Would 
we know now who was at the bottom of the whole 
affair? 

Nearer and nearer—very uncertain steps, too. 

There was a clang! from the other part of the 
cellar. 

Craig bent over near me and grabbed a shadowy 
form now faintly visible in the darkness. 

A scream—Angela’s! 

“Help-p!” 

“Angela—it’s I—Kennedy. Don’t be alarmed. 
We heard noises, thought we were following them.” 

“So did I.” 



MYSTERY WAVES 


51 


“I wouldn’t do it again if I were you. There’s 
no use walking into danger. You may not always 
be grabbed by friendly enemies!” 

She laughed nervously in reaction. 

I fancied I heard hurried footfalls and a window 
carefully closed. Kennedy slipped away, leaving 
me to guard Angela. A moment later I fancied I 
heard the crunching of broken stone on a walk fol¬ 
lowed by the distant starting of a motor. 

“Well, they’ve gone—whoever they were,” re¬ 
ported Kennedy, appearing noiselessly from no¬ 
where. 

“And I’m afraid I spoiled your scheme to find out 
who it was. Please don’t say, ‘Just like a woman,’ 
when we get out.” 

I started toward the window through which we 
had come. 

“No—no—no!” headed off Kennedy. “Let Angela 
take us back—her way.” 

Getting out of the cellar involved no such fan¬ 
tastic terror as getting in. Perhaps I was too ab¬ 
sorbed by the new problem. We had heard two 
noises. One had been caused by Angela. Who else 
had been down there—and why? 

As we passed the hotel office a clerk who had been 
sorting mail handed Angela quite an accumulation. 

“Letters from film fans?” asked Kennedy as she 
drew aside by a wicker table and began opening 
them. 

“N-no,” she replied with a puzzled look. “They 
seem to be from radio fans. I remember once when 
I broadcasted from WJZ my mail was cluttered up 
for days with hundreds of letters. . . . But this is 
different. Amateur radio fans must have been pick- 



52 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

ing up those slanderous things we heard over the 
. . . the spirit wireless . . . and they’re writing let¬ 
ters to know if it’s all true. Good grief, Mr. Ken¬ 
nedy! Can’t something be done to stop it? If this 
goes on, I shall be ruined with my public!” 

Kennedy glanced hastily over the letters. “H’m 
—seems that a great proportion of them are from 
local fans—some even tell about their sets—a lot 
of crystal detectors—those won’t pick up broadcast¬ 
ing from any great distance, ordinarily.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“That’s what I’d like to know myself. Suppose 
you stay here with your mother; she looked 
decidedly ill when I helped her to her rooms after 
the seance. Walter and I will stroll over to the bay 
and see if we can dig up Halleck.” 

We found a skiff and rowed out to the house boat 
Sea Vamp anchored off shore. 

“Pretty complete looking craft,” remarked 
Kennedy from the stern as we drew near it. “Even 
equipped with wireless.” 

I paused rowing, turned and observed that there 
were antenna} on the boat, then resumed at the 
oars, thinking it over. 

We shouted ahoy as we approached, but there was 
no answer. Even after we climbed aboard it was 
evident that there was no trace of Halleck. Un¬ 
invited and unimpeded we explored the Sea Vamp 
and soon found it a most comfortable house boat of 
seven rooms and bath, with its own motive power. 
Kennedy located the radio sending and receiving 
set, rather a good one, and began examining it. 

It did not take me a minute to deduce that when 
the company was working out here, they used the 


MYSTERY WAVES 53 

rooms in the Sea Vamp as dressing rooms. I nosed 
from one to another, still hoping to find Halleck. 

“I didn’t find Halleck,” I reported, now full of 
excitement, to Kennedy, “but I did find the dressing 
room that Lois probably uses. Look—in a pocket 
of a sport sweater, hers of course, I came across this.” 

Kennedy took from me a business card. En¬ 
graved on its face was “Carter & Carter, Attorneys 
and Counselors at Law. 12 Wall Street.” On the 
other side was written: “Riverview 1275 Apt. J,” 
and after it “$125 per m.,” “4R & B.” 

Craig seemed quite like a good hound on a scent. 
“Row me back to shore, Walter, quick. We’ll get 
to the first public telephone that has a booth. I’ll 
take the Carter side; you call Riverview.” 

I finished my call much sooner than Craig with 
his, and emerged so excited from the booth that I 
totally forgot the great beads of perspiration stand¬ 
ing on my forehead. 

“Miss Lois Gregory,” I asked on a venture, as the 
voice of a colored hallboy evidently came back to 
me. 

“Ain’t nobody ob dat name here!” 

“But Apartment J.” 

“Oh, dat’s Mr. an’ Missus Halleck. . . . Dey ain’t 
no one answer!” 

“Oh!” was all I could gasp as I hung up. 

Kennedy’s face was a study as he came from his 
booth. “Craig,” I exclaimed, “Lois is really the 
secret wife of Halleck—or something. That’s their 
apartment! ” 

“So?” He seemed rapidly adding two and two. 
“I called Carter & Carter—as Halleck. He must 
have called them since he was out here. That dis- 


54 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


armed them. The clerk told me the papers were 
drawn and they had received the portrait of Ezekiel 
Garland.” 

“Papers? Ezekiel Garland?” 

“Yes; don’t you get it? There were two poses of 
John Garland in the spirit movies. What w T as the 
third portrait missing from the family album? 
Uncle Ezekiel? And then the erasure in the family 
Bible. My ultraviolet light test showed me a 
change of date of the death of Ezekiel—ten years 
added to the date.” 

“But—the papers?” 

“Oh, Walter! Can’t you see? Halleck was get¬ 
ting ready to put in a claim that he is the long-lost 
nephew of John Garland—hence the sole heir.” 


VIII 


THE DEAD HAND 

Selena was really ill from the excitement of the 
seance and the weakening of the drug that had been 
breathed in the vapor of the citronella, if not also in 
other ways we did not yet know. 

“Who’s her physician?” asked Kennedy of Angela. 
“I saw the name of Dr. Newlin on some prescrip¬ 
tions in the medicine closet.” 

Angela shook her head. “They must have been 
for old Mr. Garland. No, mother has Dr. Wright.” 

Dr. Wright, taken into Kennedy’s confidence, was 
not inclined to mimimize the seriousness of the case. 
However, Mrs. Garland was at last made easy, but 
the consequence was that we were all up rather 
later than we would have been otherwise. 

“This porch looks like the dickens,” remarked 
Angela as we gathered at a comer, now that her 
mother was assured to be out of danger. “I wonder 
if Tom is up yet. I’m going to call him, before the 
Garland ghost moves things about again for us. He 
can get us something to drink and straighten things 
out. Oh—no more bats or bogie-men—to-night!” 

Murray was alone with us and we had our first 
chance to talk quietly over what had happened and 
had been discovered. Lois was not there; nor was 
Halleck. 

Angela had not gone twenty feet from us, how- 

55 


56 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

ever, when I saw her stop and draw in her breath 
quickly. Then she ran over to the rail of the porch 
and leaned over, still breathing deeply. She sped 
down toward the service end. 

“Tom! Tom! See if it’s coming from the 
kitchen! ” 

Kennedy rose. “I smell smoke!” he exclaimed 
simply. 

Craig, Murray, and I scattered about to see if we 
could locate any fire. Suddenly, as we ran down 
from the porch, we could see smoke rolling out of 
the cellar in vast clouds under the wing where 
Selena’s apartments were. 

‘Til telephone the fire house!” shouted Murray, 
leaping back toward the little office. 

Angela ran into the house before anyone could 
stop her and I followed. In a few seconds I was 
with her on the top landing. Already there was 
thick stifle all about us. Half leading, half dragging 
her mother, we managed to get her down the stairs. 

Servants were running up and down now, hug¬ 
ging their most precious belongings in their arms. 

The bellowing, shrieking, alarming siren at the 
power house blasted the echoes. It was not far, and 
we knew that it would not be many minutes before 
the volunteer fire apparatus would respond, for the 
fire company was the pride of the county at the 
tournaments. 

Angela was everywhere. She had brought her 
mother out on the lawn. Now she ran back to the 
office. Books, papers, documents, everything she 
could carry, she heaped in her arms. The safe was 
closed. 

For a few minutes it looked as if the fire might 


THE DEAD HAND 


57 


take the whole house. We heard the clanging of 
bells and the shouts of men as the fire apparatus 
came speeding, cut-outs wide, up the roadway. 

“Kennedy, I take my hat off to these buffs—they 
are on the job! It hasn’t been ten minutes since 
Murray phoned and here they are!” 

I had been carrying out whatever Angela sug¬ 
gested. Kennedy had been making Selena comfort¬ 
able and looking after her. 

Soon we had more help than we needed. As the 
news spread that the famous old inn was burning, 
everybody who owned a car from a flivver to a Rolls 
hustled to the scene. One good fire makes the whole 
world akin. 

Besides, they were all rather proud of the fire¬ 
men, some of whom were themselves. And they 
were certainly efficient. It didn’t take long before 
two good streams of water were playing on the house 
and another in the cellar. The water pressure was- 
good and the firemen had the blaze under control 
quicker than I would have imagined possible outside 
of the city. 

There was an air of relief. The crowd began to 
take on the look of a reception. Between Craig and 
Murray they managed to keep most of them away 
from Mrs. Garland’s corner. 

Destruction of the Garland House had been 
threatened—but the destruction had not been quick 
enough. 

Kennedy drew me aside. “Come around in the 
back. Let’s do a little exploring.” 

I saw that he was making for the window through 
which we had made our entrance but not our exit. 
The smoke was clearing a bit and he flashed his 


58 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

pocket searchlight down in carefully. Then he 
dropped through and I followed. 

Groping, stumbling, choking, and coughing, he 
made his way in the direction he had disappeared 
when he had left Angela and myself standing alone 
in the blackness that afternoon. We could see that 
the fire had burned more there. Even the old lally 
posts were weakened. 

As his pencil of light waved about, I suddenly 
choked an exclamation. 

A few feet ahead of us in the billowing smoke 
clouds lay a body of a man, a charred body. 

Kennedy stumbled forward and bent over. 

“Halleck!” he gritted. 

“What’s all that stuff around him—leather and 
rope—burnt?” I muttered, bending over also. 

“Caught in a trap—the thing I moved from one 
window, where I was supposed to come in,—to the 
other where I heard him get out!” 

“Heard him? Did he set it?” 

“I think so. Anyhow—there must have been 
another with him to-night. There’s the remains of 
some scientific incendiary contraption that that 
stream of water must have saved for us. So—w r e 
were to have more ghostly rappings—I was to in¬ 
vestigate—get caught—destroyed—perhaps Selena 
Garland destroyed, too!” 

“Another? You don’t think he was alone?” 

“No. Events have been moving too fast for them. 
Yes—I believe there was another—who saw a 
chance—in the accidental miscarriage—to get rid 
of an accuser!” 

As I gazed at Halleck’s charred but recognizable 
face I began to find answers to questions that had 




THE DEAD HAND 


59 


been puzzling me for two days. Who was it had 
stolen, exposed, and replaced the negative, ready 
to perpetrate the spirit film hoax? Who but Hal- 
leck? What of the wireless? Kennedy’s hurried 
words recurred: “I believe there was another—saw a 
chance—to get rid of an accuser!” 

I felt in my pocket. There still was the card I 
had taken from the sport sweater in the houseboat. 
Quickly now Kennedy gave the alarm. 

“Thank the stars, Mrs. Garland, you are fully 
covered by insurance,” Lurie remarked as we 
approached. 

With much dry-washing of his hands, he declared 
his belief that the townspeople had been deceived 
and asserted that as for himself he intended to urge 
the surrogate to admit the will to probate without 
any further delay. 

Word seemed to have got about of the seance dur¬ 
ing the afternoon and Murray had been unable to 
keep the people from crowding about Mrs. Garland. 

“But, Newlin,” I heard one local wiseacre, “I can’t 
see how you can say one set of these things is a 
fake—and then that another bunch of stuff like 
spirit movies and ghosts speaking over radio is 
true!” 

Dr. Newlin looked as if he would have liked to 
escape by asserting he had been either hypnotized 
or hoaxed when he said that any psychic phenomena 
were genuine. 

“But—what of my mother?” persisted Angela, 
who had caught the conversation. 

Newlin looked about. Angela seemed to have the 
crowd with her. “I don’t believe she ever faked a 
seance!” he replied, weakly. 





60 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


I looked about for Lois, as Kennedy interrupted 
and announced our finding the body of Halleck. 

Still my one-track mind was thinking of his 
words: “I believe there was another—saw a chance 
—to get rid of an accuser!” 

Kennedy had no sooner spread the word, than 
there w r as a cry from the crowd. 

“Now, here, folks,” boomed a deep voice, “I’m 
constable! See? You keep back until the coroner 
sees that body of Halleck—get me?” The local 
police force brandished his automatic to enforce the 
scientific detective spirit of Peconic law. 

There was a murmur from the crowd. 

Above the murmur came a piercing shriek from 
Selena. 

Something from a window above our heads 
hurtled through the air and fell with a thud on the 
turf. 

Kennedy pushed the others aside as we ran. 

Under the headlights’ streaming rays on the lawn 
lay something, white, motionless. 

It was Lois, who had leaped from the window of 
her room on the third floor. 

I picked up a sheet of paper. My hand shook. 
For I knew it must tell the story, a dead hand 
reaching forth to shake an accusing finger at the 
living! 

I unfolded the confession. 


IX 


THE MIND MASTER 

Kennedy seized the note as I handed it to him 
and read the hasty scrawl in a vertical, angular 
woman’s hand: 

“I played to win a fortune. Now that it is lost, I am 
lost. I have nothing 1 to live for except disgrace and punish¬ 
ment. Let this be a lesson to all girls who are tempted as 
I have been tempted. 

“My husband, Hal Halleck, was in reality the tool of the 
real master-mind—playing his part for a price, as I played 
my part, blinded by the glitter of money. I guess I never 
loved Hal much, or I wouldn’t have been dragged into it. 
The wiser we are the harder we fall. 

“It was Hal who stole and double-exposed the negative 
raw stock at the studio. He had duplicate keys to the dark 
room and knew the combination of the film vault in the 
studio. 

“Dr. Newlin is in reality merely a credulous psychic re- 1 
searcher, a poor dupe of this mind-master, who holds a mort¬ 
gage over his property out here in Bayhead. In my opinion 
the mortgage made him a hypocrite, but I try to be charitable. 

“This mind-master used Selena Arnold, then sought to 
fasten the crime on her and discredit her, ruin her reputa¬ 
tion—even Angela’s, if necessary—anything to shift the 
guilt on someone who, though innocent, might be made to 
look like a fraud. 

“It was this mind-master who really poisoned old Gar¬ 
land, after the marriage, then caused the local gossip when 
he sought to have the will broken. 

“His plan was to have my husband, Hal, pose as nephew 

61 



62 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


and heir to Garland. He stole the photograph of Ezekiel 
Garland which is now with some attorneys down in Wall 
Street; also two photographs of John Garland which my 
husband used for the double exposure work. 

“Once with the fortune in Hal’s hands, he proposed to 
gouge it out of Hal as an impostor. He forced me into it. 
I was fool enough to listen when he promised to get me a 
divorce so that he could marry me and settle a fortune on me. 

“Since Mr. Kennedy came into the case he has feared 
Hal would spill the story. Now that he has made away 
with Hal in a trap that was to catch Mr. Kennedy, I fear 
the same fate as poor Hal!” 

Kennedy paused in his reading. Selena turned 
slowly to her daughter. “Then, Angela, Lois was 
nothing but an adventuress! The estate is really 
mine!” 

Angela said not a word. In death even the bitter¬ 
ness of jealousy was wiped away, as she looked at 
the broken, white form on the grass. Murray’s arm 
stole about her as she turned to him. 

“Just a moment!” I saw that Kennedy had 
moved over to the local constable and that the two 
were shouldering their way through the crowd to¬ 
ward a figure that was slinking off in the darkness. 
“Just a moment. There’s another paragraph! ‘The 
mind-master is James Lurie, secret owner of the 
Sea Vamp, from which he broadcasted the radio 
slander messages!’ I think we’ll put you in jail, 
Lurie, and let you fight your way out—if you can!” 




/ 

/ 











BURIED ALIVE! 


I 

BAUBLES AND RUBLES 

“It is a good thing my parts are tragedies, or I 
could not act! Ah, Mr. Kennedy, it is terrible. 
I am so worried I cannot sleep, I cannot eat.” 

Olga Olanoff, the little Russian dancer, was pacing 
up and down the length of the laboratory, her brown 
eyes snapping, her hands in constant motion, every 
movement one of grace and intensity of feeling. 

“I am so angry—I am so frightened—I am just 
myself as I am in those parts—the poor queen with 
someone after her head—only with me it is these 
jewels instead of my head!” 

“We are here in America with the crown jewels 
of the Romanoffs—some of them—to be sold to 
American millionaires to restore the Russian ruble,” 
explained the man who accompanied her. He had 
already introduced himself as Alexis Moskowitch, 
representative of the Soviet Crown Jewels Commit¬ 
tee. “You must know that we have arranged at 
the American Gallery a great auction on the 
fifteenth. To-day is only the second of the month. 
But there have already been two attempts to steal 
these jewels of fabulous wealth! It is not the duty 
of Olga to guard them; that is mine. Her duty is 

65 




66 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


the propaganda in the Muscovite Theatre. But 
Olga feels the responsibility so much since we were 
married in Paris that she had made me come to you, 
Mr. Kennedy, with her.” 

The eyes of Alexis, as he spoke in faultless Eng¬ 
lish, had followed every action of his wife, with un¬ 
concealed admiration. For Olga Olanoff was a tiny 
creature, white-skinned, dark brown of eyes, eyes 
that could sparkle and glow one minute with fun 
and life and in the next portray the somberness 
and melancholy of the peasant land that was striv¬ 
ing blindly upward toward the stars. 

Her slenderness was almost emaciation, her ankles 
the slimmest I have ever seen, and the most active. 
All her life she had danced in the schools and the 
theatres of Russia, but she was versatile; she had 
adopted the speaking part of the stage as well as 
that of the dance and pantomime. 

“In London yesterday,” pursued Moskowitch, as 
Olga listened with large eyes raptly, ardently bent 
upon him, “you could buy twenty million Russian 
rubles in paper for one American paper dollar.” He 
smiled back at her, then to Kennedy he conceded, 
“That shows a difference in paper. Before the war, 
those twenty million rubles were worth ten million 
dollars in gold. Think—twenty million rubles—one 
American dollar.” 

“Yes,” nodded Kennedy. “I am told by Chalia¬ 
pin, who is both a great actor and a great singer, 
that he worked for twenty-five years, lived eco¬ 
nomically, and saved three million rubles, worth a 
million and a half dollars in gold. I believe his plan 
was to establish a school in which young men and 
women of talent could be made into great artists, 



BAUBLES AND RUBLES 


67 


where he might live in his old age surrounded by the 
youth that he so generously encouraged. But he 
was an artist; not a business man. He kept his 
money in Russian rubles. Now his fortune, once 
worth a million and a half of our gold dollars, would 
be worth, according to your quotation, in actual 
money less than twenty cents. You could not start 
a school of music on that!” 

I thought that Kennedy was about to launch into 
a lecture of warning, how the Russian ruble proved 
to those -who planned a new world that there was 
nothing theoretical about money, but, instead, he 
merely asked, “Why do you come to me? Are you 
afraid?” 

Olga answered like a flash. “Already they have 
come for those jewels twice— twice —and nearly got 
them each time.” 

Kennedy considered the inflection, rather than the 
words. “Do you suspect anyone?” he question^ 
quickly. Olga shrugged. 

“Coming over on the boat,” she answered, “there 
was Mr. Slade, the banker. He was friendly, too 
friendly for the comfort of my Alexis. He sit near 
me on the deck all the time he can. When we ar¬ 
range a concert and I sing, then he is near me. I 
am so weary of him—talk of the jewels, what they 
are, the value, the price of them. Even he ask 
where we keep them—as if I would tell him all!” 
Another shrug and a derisive look conveyed the im¬ 
pression that the banker had made. 

As for me, I had been all ears from the first. Only 
yesterday Clare Kellard, the writer and artist, had 
come into the Star. She had told the managing 
editor that she was temporarily laying aside work 


68 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


on her book of her experiences during her year in 
Russia and wanted to write for us a story about 
the efforts of emissaries of the Romanoffs in America 
to get back the jewels. She had hinted at the pres¬ 
ence in America of Prince Vladimir and the fact that 
Cromwell Slade, frequent spokesman for the Ameri¬ 
can international bankers, had shown such friendli¬ 
ness with Vladimir in consulting him as to the value 
of various objects in the collection of jewels now for 
sale. 

Miss Kellard had accompanied her dark hint of 
Romanoff intrigue with an even darker hint: “You 
know Cromwell Slade himself and his friends bought 
millions of Russian bonds that are now worthless.” 
She had not said as much, but the implication was 
plain that either by plotting for a return of the 
Romanoffs, or in some other way, Slade and others 
might be eager to recoup. 

I managed to get into the other room of the 
laboratory with the door shut and whisper a call 
to the office, “I think I have the inside on the Rus¬ 
sian crown jewel story!” 

“Clare Kellard is in the office now,” came back 
word from the managing editor. “I am sending her 
up!” He had hung up before I could object; and 
afterward I could see no reason to stop it. If Ken¬ 
nedy were to take the case he would need all the 
information he could get from every angle. 

“We are staying at the beautiful Long Island 
home of Mr. John Brock Lord,” I heard Alexis tell 
as I returned to the room. 

Brock Lord, the radical son of a rather wealthy 
radical father, I knew, had put up his estate as bond 
for “Big Bill” Williams, the agitator. Williams had 


BAUBLES AND RUBLES 


69 


jumped his bail and fled—supposedly to Russia. 
The Brock Lord estate was about to be taken on the 
forfeited bond. Brock Lord could not save it him¬ 
self; nor had the other more or less parlor radicals 
either the money or the disposition to save it for 
him. 

“Some of the jewels we have sold at the price we 
have set and the money is in the bank,” continued 
Moskowitch. “Mr. Lord’s house is out there where 
your wealthy people all have estates. We are sell¬ 
ing others to them. The rest will be put up at the 
auction. Meanwhile, they are all insured in the 
International Burglary Insurance Company.” 

Olga had been waiting impatiently for him to 
finish. “Even when we reached Mr. Lord’s house,” 
she broke in, “Mr. Slade made a call on me the first 
day. I made Alexis stay in the room with us.” 
Then, with a lowering of the brow and her body 
swaying with anger, she vehemently exclaimed, 
“And that night they came—I do not know who— 
they got away—but they killed one of my beautiful 
wolfhounds, Nikky.” 

“And the second attempt?” prompted Kennedy. 

“Did you ever hear of Adam Stein?” she asked. 

I nodded for him. “Yes, Adam Stein, organizer 
of a secret syndicate, it is said, of wealthy and 
powerful Jewish bankers, who lent money to Japan 
during the war in the Far East and later backed 
the revolution in Russia after the massacres of Jews 
continued—then backed the Soviet revolution. They 
say that Stein is quite eager, now, for trade favors, 
in return.” 

I glanced at Moskowitch, but Olga answered, 
“Yes, he is very wealthy here in America, I am told. 



70 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


He has given the Soviet much—but lately he has 
stopped his support. I do not know why. But now 
—every day he sends me flowers, very beautiful, 
very costly, always sent to the Wonder Woman/ he 
calls me. Last week he send me a beautiful brace¬ 
let of diamonds and platinum. I like it—but I send 
it back—for Alexis. 

“It make no difference. He call to see us at Mr. 
Lord’s house. Now I think the wdiole thing was 
to introduce the subject of jewels. He wanted to 
see them; he said he know where on Fifth Avenue 
a dealer would buy all, without doubt. We show 
them to him, then put them back in the big safe 
where our servant Dmitri guard day and night; . . . 
That night, also, someone try to break into the 
house. But we have a guard outside, now. This 
guard frightened them away, whoever they were, 
but did not see. Now . . . after these visits, each 
time, an attempt to rob. I want to know . . . what 
is matter with our friends?” 

Before Kennedy was aware of her intention, Olga 
had started across the room. Gently she took his 
hand. “Ah, Mr. Kennedy, I have hear so much 
of you and your honest work. You will help me; 
you will help my Alexis—to save the jewels for our 
Soviet?” The fires of patriotism glowed in her soul 
through her eyes. 

Alexis whispered. “She is never still, always doing 
something for her beloved people, something for her 
Russia. Just as she is in personality, so she is in 
her work—more—more—more!” The Soviet repre¬ 
sentative threw out his hands to convey to me the 
idea of the marvel to him of her expansive person¬ 
ality and service. 




BAUBLES AND RUBLES 71 

“Why, Olga—of all things!—to see you here! I 
thought you were out at Lord’s.” 

It was Clare Kellard who had come in. I greeted 
her and found to my surprise that introduction was 
needed to no one but Craig. 

Olga’s cordiality was not very manifest. I saw 
in her something of the same manner I had seen 
when she spoke of Slade and Stein. Could it be that 
when one goes to see about the protection of a 
treasure, it is not conducive to meet one you suspect 
of having designs upon it in some way? 

“No . . . business, much theatrical business has 
kept me in town to-day.” 

“Judging by their opinion of him down on the 
Star Mr. Kennedy is a producer of shows—yes,” 
nodded Clare rather pointedly. “By the way, I saw 
a friend of yours last night, Olga, Prince Vladimir. 
He raved over you and the idea of the Muscovite 
Theatre.” Clare seemed thoroughly to enjoy the 
thrust. 

I saw that I had make a mistake. If the two in¬ 
terviews were to be conducted, they would have to 
be carried on separately. Olga and Alexis saved the 
embarrassment by rising to go. Kennedy and the 
two held a hurried whispered conference by the door 
as I stood with Clare. 

“If they are stolen,” I heard Olga at last, “I will 
be disgraced. . . . So, I invite you and Mr. Jameson 
to come to me, as it is said in Russian.” 

She nodded and I saw that Kennedy had agreed 
to go out to the Lord mansion and look the situation 
over that night. 

“If you are going out on Long Island,” remarked 
Clare as the door closed, “I think we may postpone 




72 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


whatever we also have to say. I have an appoint¬ 
ment with my publishers downtown. You see, I am 
living at the Brock Lord house while I am finishing 
the manuscript and the drawings for my book.” 

Neither Kennedy nor I said anything of the rather 
evident hostility of the two women. Craig chatted 
a few moments about Russia with Clare, then as she 
moved to the door, he grasped the doorknob to let 
her out. 

As he flung the door open, we were surprised to 
see a stranger standing in the hall, very close to the 
door. 

“Ah, I was about to knock,” he bowed hastily. 
“But I can wait.” He stood aside, then, as Clare 
left, entered. 

He waited until the outside door of the laboratory 
building had slammed, then slowly and deliberately 
ignored Kennedy's glance of inquiry by asking a 
question himself. 

“I suppose you have been primed with facts about 
the Romanoff treasures?” 

Kennedy conveyed nothing by a motion of 
muscle. 

“You know that there have already been two at¬ 
tempts at robbery out there at the Brock Lord 
place?” 

“Well, sir, who are you?” Craig demanded. 

The man smiled, reached for a card case, drew out 
a card and laid it before us: 

Gaston Barker, Special Representative of the In¬ 
ternational Burglary Insurance Company. 

“Just a polite camouflage for the fact that I am a 
detective for the company in which the Romanoff 


BAUBLES AND RUBLES 


73 


jewels have been insured against theft. If you de¬ 
cide to take up the matter, I may be of some assist¬ 
ance to you.” 

“But how is it that you happen along just at this 
moment?” queried Kennedy, a bit perplexed at the 
coincidence. “Of course I appreciate your coming 
clean to the extent you have. But it—seems some¬ 
what—well, Russian, to say the least, to have you 
come in so soon after my two visits.” 

Barker smiled easily again. There was a sort of 
patronizing air about him, as of a professional to 
even a distinguished amateur. 

“Well, you see, I am watching all those who have 
any connection with the jewels. . . . Just now I am 
running down a story that has just come to us. There 
is a scandal, it seems, about this Olga Olanoff. The 
story we get is that Prince Vladimir was infatuated 
with her in Petrograd during the late days of the 
war, that he used his power to force her to become 
his secret mistress. Now that his estates are gone, 
with only a title remaining, he is a soldier of for¬ 
tune—I may say, reduced to parasiting. Her hus¬ 
band, this Moskowitch, is known as a very violent 
man. If he knew that she had concealed this scandal 
. . . well, do we know that she might not still be 
herself infatuated with this Vladimir? He is a 
handsome chap. In other words, I am tangled in a 
mess of this Russian intrigue and blackmail—until 
I am crazy!” 

Much as it seemed to go against Barker’s pro¬ 
fessional grain, he was at last in the open. His atti¬ 
tude became one of frankly asking concealed 
co-operation. 

“if, as you say, you are in the neighborhood of 


74 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


the Lord mansion much at night,” agreed Kennedy 
as we parted, “I would be pleased to arrange a code 
of signals between us, in case either of us should 
need the help of the other.” 

“Done!” exclaimed Barker eagerly, adding, “As 
soon as you have looked the ground over!” 


II 


THE SLEEPMAKER 

Set in the midst of some eight or ten acres at an 
intersection of two state roads in the fashionable 
North Shore Hunt Club section of Westley Hills, 
the Brock Lord place was imposing. But the most 
intriguing feature of it to me as we came up the 
winding driveway was the low, rambling, weathered- 
shingle house surrounded by copses of evergreens. 
I felt that its somber color, its shadows from the 
trees and shrubbery, its distance from either high¬ 
road, had an atmosphere of intrigue, intrigue on no 
petty scale. 

Brock Lord was one of those slender young men 
who will never grow T old, if growing old means be¬ 
coming impervious to new radical ideas. He was the 
type, from his Adam’s apple to his pearl gray spats. 
Grandfather Lord had amassed a fortune, trading 
on the boom that had followed the Civil War, and 
clinched it by cash lending at terrific rates in the 
panic that followed. His son, Beecher, had promptly 
gone to the other extreme and, instead of increasing 
the fortune, had taken up agitation where the Garri¬ 
sons and John Browns had left off. The son, in such 
an atmosphere, had gone the next step further— 
with the result that the old American adage was in 
all likelihood of being lived up to. Three genera¬ 
tions would see a shirt-sleeved Wall Street clerk 

75 


76 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

represented by a shirt-sleeved parlor-radical precari¬ 
ously trading on the loss of a fortune for the 
“Cause.” 

Olga and Moskowitch welcomed us with a signifi¬ 
cant look of caution, and at once Moskowitch began 
a most dignified and courteous sales talk about the 
jewels. 

As we were led into the library and introduced to 
Brock Lord, I saw why this was done. There was 
Slade, a stocky, gray-eyed man of early middle-age 
and Prince Vladimir, a tail, striking, dark-bearded, 
polished Russian, with the polish that had distin¬ 
guished Paris, Petrograd, the Riviera, and Monte 
Carlo in the generation before the Red debacle of 
aristocracy. 

The jewels were on exhibition again in the library 
and Slade was intently discussing, consulting, noting 
all that Vladimir said of them so smoothly. Back 
of the huge Jacobean oak table on which they were 
set forth, I saw the heavy safe in which they were 
kept when not on view to society and, standing be¬ 
tween the safe and the jewels, with bright little 
ferret-eyes, under bushy brows and hair and beard 
even more bushy, stood Dmitri, the type of Russian 
who had faithfully made the Little Father safe until 
the debacle and will make the world unsafe for those 
in his path some day when an uprise shall follow the 
downfall. I knew that these jewels were guarded 
with the life of Dmitri. 

A glimpse of them was astounding. Never, even 
in the vault of a famous jewel dealer, had I seen the 
equal of these remnants of the Russian crown jewels, 
the priceless heirlooms of the Romanoffs, with his¬ 
tory more romantic than the Arabian Nights tales, 







THE SLEEPMAKER 77 

soon to be disposed of by the Soviet treasury to aid 
the stabilization of the ruble. 

In the center was the imperial Russian crown, 
which weighed over four pounds and contained the 
world’s largest ruby, together with fifty thirty-carat 
diamonds, twenty-one forty-five carat diamonds and 
hundreds of smaller diamonds. There was the golden 
scepter, which contained the fabled Orloff diamond. 
Other treasures in this sparkling array included the 
famous thousand-year-old Shah diamond, as large 
as an apple. There were a 200-carat sapphire, the 
crown with 1933 diamonds, a chain of emeralds of 
270 carats, a Ural aquamarine of over 1000 carats, 
a lavalliere of pearls and diamonds—225 pearls of 
250 carats. No wonder, I felt, that there should be 
threatened crime and violence about this collection 
of barbaric splendor, amassed by such crime and 
violence for centuries. 

I watched narrowly as Clare Kellard, the friend of 
Brock Lord, and light in this leading group of serious 
thinkers, entered with a man of medium height, a 
trace of a roll under his olive chin and fat, pudgy 
fingers, thrust into the pockets of a dinner coat 
drawn in such a way as to conceal as much as pos¬ 
sible his gaining embonpoint. 

It was Adam Stein, the only one who affected 
anything but the plebeian afternoon business 
clothes. 

As he talked with Clare and his rather prominent 
eyes met hers in frank appraisal, I could not resist 
thinking again of Olga’s experiences as the “wonder 
woman.” I wondered whether in Stein’s nympho- 
leptic search Clare Kellard was the new “wonder 
woman.” Millions, perhaps the exact number un- 


78 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


known to himself from day to day, lay at the dis¬ 
posal of Adam Stein. It had become with him a 
game in which on the way to billions he was disport¬ 
ing himself with all things of beauty, whether they 
were human or mineral, that might become objects 
of ownership. 

“First came the furore of the Russian ballet, then 
the barbaric splendor which America remembers as 
it does Bakst blue,” he was saying. “Now it will be 
the ferment of the Muscovite Theatre'—and that is 
more clever, as propaganda, than anything else that 
could be done. Take for example Olga’s almost 
mystical devotion to the Russian theatre as the 
greatest theatre in the world, the most artistic, the 
most imaginative in acting, in directing, in produc¬ 
ing. Is not that superb, subtle propaganda? Out of 
their sorrows the Russians have built an art—to win 
the world!” 

Clare shook her head subtly. I saw a narrowing 
of her eyes. Then she spoke. “I do not agree— 
altogether. I have come to see that the Russians 
have built their art out of their gigantic Slav-Tartar 
exuberance and love of color, and mercurial resilience 
with a touch of—of Rabelais, if you get what I 
mean. I have a chapter on it in my forthcoming 
book, how the purely Russian optimist, Gogol, is 
more typical than the half-Teutonic pessimist 
Tolstoy. I believe the pessimism and self-analytical 
which bw the Russian trademark here in America 
are really Russian-Jewish, not Slav—that the two 
races are as far apart as—as the Poles.” 

She paused to see whether he caught her pun. A 
smile flitted over Stein’s fat face and a quick look 
at her, which she answered. I wondered if the re- 



THE SLEEPMAKER 


79 


mark had struck at a basis of withdrawal of Stein’s 
and his group’s support of Sovietism of a certain 
brand. Or was it that she was subtly seeking to 
foment a cleavage of Olga Olanoff from Stein for 
her own advantage? 

We had sauntered in groups, shifting and re¬ 
arranging, into the long drawing-room which had 
been changed into a miniature theater for a private 
rehearsal of “The Dance of Death” from the last 
act of one of the plays in the repertoire of Olanoff. 
Lighting and music had been counterfeited as far 
as possible to conform with what was to be presented 
on the stage simultaneously with the sale of the 
jewels at the American Gallery. 

In a little room off the drawing-room in the direc¬ 
tion of the library had been set up Olga’s dressing 
room. I noted that down the wide hall at the other 
end had sauntered Stein and Clare, also from the 
library, where, with the conclusion of the examina¬ 
tion of the jewels by Slade and Prince Vladimir, 
Dmitri and Alexis had replaced them in the safe and 
clanged shut the door, twisting the combination, 
locked. Dmitri had taken up his post by the safe. 

Suddenly, as w^e waited for the rehearsal, all the 
room grew dark. The emotions induced by the bits 
of action reproduced from the play preceding “The 
Dance of Death” made the intense darkness a fitting 
setting for the dance to follow. 

The music was mad in moments; then a wild 
melancholy seemed to be exuded from the strings 
of the orchestra improvised from the theater, yet 
to open. Sad, mournful wails, tones of exceeding 
tenderness made us anxious to see what the mauve 


80 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

and yellow spotlight from the theater would 
accentuate. 

A couch, dirty and unkempt, ragged covers pulled 
over it in confusion, and on it an old, old peasant 
woman, apparently in her last illness. It was she 
who had been Queen! 

Withered arms were raised to heaven pleadingly. 
There was a loud clatter on the door of the hovel, 
a disturbing clamor for admittance. The arms were 
beating the air in agony. The door fell in with a 
crash. 

The woman raised herself from the bed in horror. 
With a wild cry of fear she turned her tortured eyes 
on the intruder. Death had come to call! 

The fear left the eyes of the woman. The figure 
in white, dead white, raised a beckoning finger. The 
woman, in surprise, walked, a little faster, faster 
still. Suddenly her arm was seized by Death and a 
dance of sheer madness and agility took place. All 
the time the look of wonder and entrancement was 
found on the old woman’s face. Never in her 
younger days had she danced like this! Great leaps 
and bounds, feet scarcely touching the floor, leaping 
for roses that seemed to come from the air, from 
nothing, accompanied by music loudly crashing, 
triumphant, led up to the final burst of grace. With 
a low bow Death led the woman back to her couch. 
Taking his robe with a sweeping flare of the arm, he 
backed out of the hovel door. 

An anguished cry—and an old man rushed in— 
to find her dead by the pallet. Only the eyes of the 
audience saw the soul of the woman, a beautiful 
young girl, in airy draperies, leave the body of the 
corpse—and with joy and happiness dance out of 


THE SLEEPMAKER 81 

the room into the intense golden light of the world 
to come. 

So tense was our little audience that I doubt 
whether any of us were conscious of the presence of 
any of the others. I know that if I had been truth¬ 
ful I would never have been able to swear even that 
Kennedy was sitting all through it the foot and a 
half away that he was when it began and when it 
ended. 

The rehearsal, an earnest of the splendid artistic 
success that was to come to the Muscovite Theatre, 
was followed by a midnight supper in the dining 
room in another wing of the house. No one, I 
thought, would ever have imagined from it that 
Brock Lord was so near facing dispossession and 
bankruptcy. 

Though it made no impression on me at the time, 
I remember that each guest had as his special favor 
a vintage of some specific rare date. What did im¬ 
press me was that in the midst of the midnight sup¬ 
per a servant entered with quiet tread to inform 
Clare Kellard that she was wanted on the telephone. 
She left, but was back soon, rather flushed and 
excited. 

Animatedly, Alexis was repeating the story of 
Olga. “Throughout the Revolution, you know, the 
theater was never closed! Play shots on the stage 
inside sometimes merged with real shots on the 
street outside!” 

“Dmitri!” 

A scared-faced butler stood in the doorway utter¬ 
ing the name. 

No one questioned him. No one paused. As if 


82 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

one in mind and body, we sped down the wide 
colonial hall toward the library. 

There, in the huge armchair in which he had 
alternately watched and dozed before the safe, night 
after night, and day after day, lay Dmitri. 

Kennedy bent over him. 

“Is he—dead?” stammered Olga. 

Kennedy rose slowly. In his hand he held the 
needle of a hypodermic which had been sticking in 
the man’s neck! 

“No! Unconscious!” 

“The safe!” 

We turned as Alexis cried. The door was closed, 
but no longer locked as he had left it. It was 
possible to swing it open. He did so and looked. 
The crown jewels were gone—stolen! 

Kennedy was working frantically to revive Dmitri. 

“I don’t think, however, that he can tell us a 
thing,” he panted. 

“Why?” 

“It is one of these poisoned needle cases.” 

“But why did he make no cry, if it was a needle? 
The needle does not put you out—like that!” 

“The sleepmaker—first a thrust of ethyl chloride 
or amyl nitrite under the nose—pouf!—out—it lasts 
only a few seconds—then the jab of the needle—that 
lasts for hours. It is the method of the Paris sleep- 
makers,” returned Kennedy. 

Dmitri, revived, dazed, bewildered, was, as Craig 
had expected, oblivious to all that had happened. 
He had known not a thing! 

I drew Craig aside by a portiere. 

“Every one of them,” I whispered hopelessly, “has 
had possible access at one time or another during 





THE SLEEPMAKER 


83 


the evening, the Dance of Death, the midnight sup¬ 
per, to the library where Dmitri was guarding that 
safe!” 

The portiere moved. I pulled it aside. There 
stood Barker, the insurance company detective. 

“Remember,” he whispered, “Prince Vladimir had 
been blackmailing her! . . . I believe she stole them 
herself, from her dressing-room—eh?—hoping that 
the Soviet would get the insurance—while she might 
satisfy the extravagant demands of this Prince 
Vladimir, who’s a past master in blackmail of 
woman. She herself "would be safe, then, from the 
hidden violence of her husband. ... It is my duty 
for the company to watch her! . . . My signal will 
be three short, three long, three short on this 
whistle—my S 0 S!” 


Ill 


THE BORGIA SUPPER 

It was not five minutes later when Kennedy’s 
quizzing of the servants, with a careful eye on the 
guests, none of whom we could come out in the open 
to accuse, was interrupted by sharp blasts outside 
from a police whistle. 

We hurried out into the shadows to find Barker 
and the outside guard who had been placed to 
patrol the grounds, arguing with a chauffeur of a 
big dark touring car. 

“What’s the matter?” demanded Stein as he 
pushed forward. “That is my car which I ordered 
here for me at midnight. What’s the matter, 
David?” 

Barker did not give the chauffeur a chance to 
reply. “Matter enough! How about this? What 
is it? What’s in it?” 

He pointed to a big leather duffle bag in the rear. 
Quickly he opened it. But it was empty. 

“Yes—empty, now,” he growled. “But what was 
in it? You were here before—at midnight. Wliere 
have you been?” 

Stein was not accustomed to having anyone in¬ 
terrupt him. Besides, it was his nature to hold 
the center of the stage. He blocked the way between 
Barker and David, and, himself began fingering the 
leather duffle bag. 


84 




THE BORGIA SUPPER 


85 


“Ha! What is this?” he declared, switching on 
the little light by the rear door of the car and hold¬ 
ing the bag down in its rays. “Initials—‘C. K.’ It 
is not mine. I never saw it. Whose is it?” 

He turned boldly accusing upon us all. 

“C. K.” repeated Slade, then with a half sneer 
turned to Kennedy. “Those are your initials, if I 
am not mistaken.” 

“Don’t try to be facetious, Slade,” returned Ken¬ 
nedy, suddenly wheeling on someone in the dark¬ 
ness. “What about it?” 

“It is mine,” came the answer from Clare Kel- 
lard. “It was full of my drawings which I made in 
Russia. I had promised to send it to the art editor 
of the Rural Press, who lives only a few miles from 
here at Park City. But it escaped my mind until 
pretty late. I sent it, anyhow. It was promised 
for the morning and I know what a nighthawk Mr. 
Hutton is. They’re in a great hurry to get out a 
book, ‘Soviet Sketches,’ and can’t w^ait for me to 
finish the manuscript I’m writing.” 

There seemed to be nothing for the present to 
do but accept Clare’s explanation, especially as 
David confirmed it. 

Kennedy consumed an hour or two questioning 
the guard as to whether he had seen anything out¬ 
side at the time. He seemed not to have seen any¬ 
thing. It was certain also that no one of the guests 
had the more bulky jewels, at least, on his person. 
Nor did a thorough search of the house reveal any¬ 
thing. Craig established a cordon of guards about 
the estate and we waited until morning. 

We were gathered in the sunny breakfast room 
of the Lord mansion, admiring the outlook through 


86 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


the many windows. Olga with her cardinal red gown 
and Clare with her brilliant mulberry vied with the 
gay flowers about the room to lend color and 
enchantment. 

Some women are like cats. They like to use their 
claws and sometimes Clare used hers merely as if 
sharpening them. “Well, Olga, are you alone? 
Always there are men, men, men about you, dear. 
Where is Alexis?” She avoided Olga’s sharp glance 
by smiling at me. 

“Clare, it has always been so. Is it not so with 
you? If it is not, I feel sorry for you. I should grow 
weary if I had to try hard always to attract!” She 
put out her hands naively and Olga’s hands were 
the hands of an artist. She talked with them. 
“Alexis did not feel well. He seemed to be sleeping 
when I came down. He should be down with me, 
now. I go and see him.” 

We had all gathered for breakfast and were waiting 
for Olga and Alexis to appear. 

Suddenly a piercing scream came from the hall¬ 
way, loud sobs from a distracted woman, and Olga 
flew into the room, past her host until she came to 
Kennedy. “Alexis! My Alexis! Please come— 
hurry! He is so still! Oh, what is the matter? 
What have they done to him?” Great tears were 
rolling down her cheeks, and she was the embodi¬ 
ment of frightened grief. 

All forgot breakfast in the rush to help Olga in 
her trouble. But Kennedy took charge of the situa¬ 
tion. “If he is ill, dangerously ill, he must not be 
disturbed or excited. Let me go with his wife. 
Brock, will you summon a doctor?” 

Craig accompanied Olga into her room and I fol- 


THE BORGIA SUPPER 


87 


lowed. There indeed lay Alexis Moskowitch, in a 
stupor, as though poisoned. Craig had me chasing 
after a hundred errands between ineffective efforts 
to quiet the high-keyed Olga. 

But it was of no avail. He seemed to gasp out his 
stupor before even the doctor arrived, and was dead. 

Kennedy held a hasty conference with the doctor, 
while I kept a barrier between the distracted Olga 
and the curious guests in the upper hall. 

Olga heard them outside and it seemed to revolt 
her. “Oh, Doctor . . . Mr. Kennedy . . . please 
... let him sleep quietly. He never cared for 
what you call the limelight. He was quiet, un¬ 
obtrusive. I was his light. I will watch him. He 
didn’t like to be stared at by strangers. I respect 
his wishes when he is dead. He would have done 
that for me!” 

When we heard Olga murmuring through her tears 
about her husband’s love for solitude we naturally 
fell in with her wishes. It was the least we could 
do and Craig drew me out with him into the hall 
away from the others. 

We were not alone long. The others were soon 
crowding about to listen in as Craig, thinking aloud, 
expounded his first theory of what had actually 
happened. 

“It makes one think of the Borgias,” he hazarded. 
“Whether they used poisons in rings or wines or 
fruits or other means, they possessed the secrets of 
many strange poisons—but not so many as modem 
science has invented. ... You know, many a 
prince and cardinal expired in agony after having 
been invited to one of their dinners. They were not 
so crude as to poison wines with any ingredient 


88 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


which would cause death quickly and thus arouse 
immediate suspicion. But on such occasions they 
administered poisons which worked only after sev¬ 
eral days and produced symptoms which might have 
been caused by natural illness.” 

I wondered. Had it been a Borgia supper the 
night before? Alexis was dead. As Kennedy 
talked, I recalled now that each had been supplied 
with a special vintage at the supper. . . . 

One of the servants was making frantic efforts to 
attract Kennedy’s attention and we managed to 
slip away down a corridor to talk to him. 

“I don’t know whether I ought to say anything 
or not—but I was in the hall when that woman was 
at the telephone,” the butler whispered. “I did not 
hear all, but I did hear her say, ‘Yes, it is time to 
do it! ’” 

“Yes—it is time to issue my book of drawings, 
‘Soviet Sketches.’ ” Clare had detached herself 
from the others and had come down the corridor, 
which was a veritable wdiispering gallery. “I told 
them, Hawkins. They knew I had an appointment 
with my publisher at his New York office yesterday, 
that I had forgotten to send what I had promised 
out to the Rural Press, here.” 

The butler was squelched. But myself I won¬ 
dered why she had picked out Stein’s chauffeur and 
midnight to dispatch the duffle bag. Was it true? 

Craig did not stop to smooth things over, but 
hurried down the hall to Olga’s room, where the door 
was now ajar. In our absence Barker had entered 
the room very professionally. There had been a 
glint of determination in his eye as he approached 
Olga. 


THE BORGIA SUPPER 


89 


A little surprised, she had left the doctor and gone 
to the end of the room with him, when we saw them. 
As nothing much can be done to snub a reporter or 
his curiosity for news, I managed to get within ear¬ 
shot by absently admiring one of Brock’s wonderful 
etchings on the wall. 

“I think,” I heard Barker bluntly, “it is mighty 
strange, Mrs. Moscowitch—the jewels disappear one 
night; your husband is dead the next morning. I 
have heard from Clare Kellard that you had dinner 
with the Prince one night last week and we know 
that in Petrograd the Prince-” 

“Oh, you beast! You evil-minded creature! In 
my country I could have you killed for so insulting 
me! I, who would have died for him—and my be¬ 
loved Russia!” 

Olga’s temper was fast getting the better of her. 
She had taken Barker’s arm and was shaking it as 
fast as she was talking. Great red spots glowed in 
her cheeks. 

“You attribute to me the things that Kellard 
woman might do! I shall see that she does not 
have so easy a time to get into Russia again—she 
who is making money telling lies about us—while I 
am giving, giving my life, my money, my husband. 
You are a defamer! You must learn facts before 
you accuse!” 

Craig had hurried down to them. He took Bar¬ 
ker aside. “That is not the way to treat a woman 
like that,” he cautioned sharply. “If you suspect 
her, watch her, and if she is guilty she will make a 
break sooner or later. Let me manage her, Barker. 
You do the bigger job—find the jewels and the 
murderer!” 



90 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


I could see nevertheless that Barker was even 
more confirmed than ever that it was Olga at the 
bottom of it. 

When we got him away and back into the hall, I 
saw at the other end Clare Kellard and Brock Lord 
in a heated argument. All we could catch as we 
tried to get near was the name, Stein. 

I had my suspicions of Brock Lord and Clare. 
Could it be that the disagreement over Stein was 
merely a blind? I wondered. Was it about Stein, 
really? Could the argument between them have 
been over the jewels? Or was it about the butler 
who had overheard and reported to Kennedy? 


IY 


THE TRANCE TELEPHONE 

Kennedy used every endeavor to respect Olga’s 
wishes in regard to privacy, without lapsing in the 
least in his vigilance in watching her or the others. 

It was sad to watch Olga as she and the doctor 
looked at Alexis. She was quiet enough, now. 
Only the great circles under her eyes showed the 
havoc her grief had wrought. 

It was hard also to think that the pale, heavily 
> bearded man lying so quietly in death’s embrace had 
been taken from the cause for which he had worked 
so zealously and the wife he had loved so tenderly. 

The day passed wearily, with many false alarms 
from the ubiquitous Barker and much quiet work on 
the part of Kennedy. 

The burial of Alexis Moskowitch had been set for 
the morning of the fourth and it had been deter¬ 
mined to inter him in a hermetically sealed coffin. 

Olga was wearing a black gown of soft crepe that 
served only to enhance her girlishness, slenderness, 
wistfulness. I saw her drop into a chair that seemed 
to overwhelm her in its depths. She pulled out a 
miniature of Alexis, gazed at it a long time earnestly, 
and then kissed it. 

The casket was already sealed and was soon to be 
conveyed to the mausoleum. Olga had already said 
her last good-by and w T as only now waiting for the 

J91 


92 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

departure of the body. Craig had asked me to re¬ 
main with her. Out of respect for her sorrow I 
tried to keep silent, but when I heard her sobs I felt 
as if I must do something for her to show my 
sympathy. 

“Please, my dear Madame,” I entreated, “let me 
help you in some way! If there is any message I 
can write or any errand I can do, I w r ould be so 
glad—so glad to help.” I leaned over her chair, 
helpless. 

My only answer was a head bowed on the arm of 
the chair and body-racking sobs. Suddenly looking 
up at me, she murmured, “Mr. Jameson, as a little 
girl, a tiny little girl, I have had a horror of being 
buried alive! Once I read a story and it was illus¬ 
trated. It was about a woman being buried alive. 
It showed the coffin and the woman struggling in the 
narrow place—gasping, gasping for air. She was 
tearing her hair out by handfuls. Oh, I shuddered 
and dreamed over that woman! Now I feel so 
worried about Alexis. Suppose he should not be 
dead—and he needed help—oh, my God—what a 
thought—to be in that thing and not to be able to 
get out!” 

“Oh Madame,” I remonstrated gently. “I would 
not worry over that. You have enough that is real 
to worry you. They don’t do things like that any 
more. Science has made many advances. It 
would be impossible. Your sorrow is your worry— 
not a conception of agony such as you have pictured. 
. . . But I feel so sorry for you. I’ll see what Craig 
can do or say to relieve your fears.” 

“Oh, your Mr. Kennedy! He is such a good, kind 
man. I like him so much. I w T ish he could come 




THE TRANCE TELEPHONE 


93 


to Russia some time. But, Mr. Jameson, I have al¬ 
ready told Mr. Kennedy. I had to. I worried too 
much about it. One cannot hide anything from 
him. . . . Ah, here he comes, now.” 

I moved over and put the question to Kennedy. 
He smiled indulgently in the direction of Olga. 
Then in a low voice he said: “The fear of being 
buried alive has tormented the human race from the 
earliest times. Now and then, Walter, the opening 
of tombs and coffins in graveyards has revealed most 
distressing evidence that those who are dear to us 
have come to life and consciousness in their graves. 
In fact many have left specific provisions in their 
wills to drain their arteries to make sure that they 
will not awake in the grave, and I have heard of 
other wills that provide that means be taken for 
keeping the supposed dead body under observation 
to give immediate relief at the first sign of reappear¬ 
ing life. It is a question on which I have thought, 
just as have others.” 

He paused, then went on, “A very strange fact is 
that science with all its research has been unable to 
suggest any certain and practical method for de¬ 
termining positively that death has really come. 
Many tests, such as applying a lighted candle to the 
fingers to see whether a blister forms or not, injec¬ 
tion of fluorescin into the veins, which will give a 
yellow cast to the face if there is the least flow of 
blood, and various other means have been suggested 
—but none of them are satisfactory and positive. 
She had told me her fear. I have arranged for a 
rather elaborate system of prevention of the danger 
of death after burial, as you will see when you 
arrive at the cemetery.” 


94 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


As the hour set for the interment neared, there 
came a new Soviet representative, Ravoff, the trade 
representative in the L T nited States, to take the 
place of comrade Alexis of the Crown Jewels Com¬ 
mission in the search for the missing treasures. 

Ravoff was a smooth-shaven man, an intellectual, 
wearing horn-rimmed glasses, energetic and sys¬ 
tematic, a capable worker for the Soviet. 

The burial was very simple. In the break be¬ 
tween the Soviet and the Greek Church, Ravoff 
officiated at the simple committal service of a few 
well-chosen words—and it was all over, all but the 
strange, barbaric mysticism of Olga, her unconquer¬ 
able fear that Alexis might be buried alive. 

When the coffin had at last been placed in the 
stone mausoleum of the Lord family, which I had a 
sneaking fear might be before long the sole property 
left to Brock Lord, Kennedy was busy for some 
minutes making an electric attachment which 
seemed to be connected in one direction through the 
back of the vault under the slab of stone in the floor, 
and in the other direction ran through the hermeti¬ 
cally sealed coffin itself. 

“You see,” he remarked aside, under his breath, 
“to satisfy Olga we are using a new death alarm, or 
trance telephone. Physicians know, it is doubtless 
true, that certain persons have been buried alive in 
the sense that while the heart’s action was still at a 
minimum they have been placed in a coffin. Stories 
of persons ‘laid out’ for the undertaker and reviving 
are not unknown. Some have even revived on the 
bier. But the number of persons buried while the 
body as a whole lived is in reality very small. I 
suppose moribund persons have been buried at times 


THE TRANCE TELEPHONE 


95 


of great confusion during plagues and epidemics. 
This has happened when the people have been in a 
state of narcolepsy, as it is called, or in reality sus¬ 
pended animation.” 

He had completed his work and the slab had been 
put in place by the attendants. 

“In this case I am using, as I said, what may be 
called the trance telephone. Inside the coffin there 
is placed in the hand of the person interred a very 
delicate annunciator, from which are led electric 
wires to a sort of little kiosk. Then, there is also 
a microphone attachment in the casket, which is 
connected also with a receiver in this kiosk. It is a 
rather ingenious invention, designed to permit a 
mourner at the grave to listen at a telephone and 
watch for the movement of a semaphore which will 
rise if the body stirs.” 

I noted that he had moved across the cemetery 
lawn near the driveway, where the kiosk had been 
set up on the other side of the hill from the Brock 
Lord mausoleum, where Alexis had been laid to rest. 
As Kennedy explained the thing to her, I wondered 
whether it was merely a superstitious fear on the 
part of Olga, or did she really believe that Alexis 
was not actually dead? 

“All day, I shall be here,” she murmured, choking 
back her sobs. “At all hours! No message can 
come over this wire without Olga hearing and help¬ 
ing! Oh, Alexis—to think I am doing this, in a 
foreign land, instead of the many beautiful things 
we had planned to do together for our country!” 

Nothing could coax her away. Kennedy finally 
left her, expecting, I suppose, that soon this feature 
of her grief would wear itself out. 


96 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


As we were leaving the cemetery, I noted Clare 
with Slade, and I thought that there was a rather 
closer intimacy between the two than was called for 
at a funeral. 

“Whither bound, Prince?” Stein greeted Vladi¬ 
mir, as they emerged upon the big broad road that 
led from two smaller roads. 

“It looks to me as if gossip has started us on the 
same quest,” Prince Vladimir answered cryptically. 

Stein laughed. “It is a case of renewing an old 
love with you—and starting a new one with me. I 
wonder—which is the more attractive to a woman?” 

Prince Vladimir was a bit incensed at the familiar¬ 
ity. “If I had your money I wouldn’t be guessing, 
Stein. As to my relations with Olga—it is nobody’s 
business!” The last was brusque. 

“Only as people make it so. I have reasons to be 
friendly with her—and her interest in other men in¬ 
terests me.” 

“Well, don’t make your interest obnoxious to me. 
They may have taken away my estates—but I still 
have my honor. Good morning, Stein.” 



V 

THE RETURN OF THE ROMANOFFS 

It was several days after the interment of Alexis. 
Kennedy was exhausted after the excitement that 
attended the disappearance of the jewels and the 
strange death of Alexis. The insurance company 
detective, Barker, had kept us busy with a never- 
ending succession of “clues.” The last one had 
taken us out again to the Lord mansion on Long 
Island and had proved as unfruitful as all the rest. 
I was almost ready to admit that the case was going 
down on the record as unsolved as the Wall Street 
bomb mystery. 

It was getting late and Kennedy decided to catch 
a few hours of rest, while I scribbled some notes of 
the latest blind alley up which we had stalked in 
the search for the gems. I had learned that in my 
daily stories of mystery cases, it was not so impor¬ 
tant to solve the mystery as it was to be interesting. 

“What’s that, Craig? Did you hear anything?” 
I jumped up to see where the tapping was coming 
from, but Craig in his silk house gown was first at 
the door. 

He opened it cautiously and peered out. “Why— 
Miss Kellard! What has happened?” 

Without answering a word, she slipped in and 
closed the door softly. I must say that I was not 
much impressed by the visit. She was all wrapped 


o-r 


98 


CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


around with a batik dyed dressing gown and her 
head was swathed in it, too. It was hanging in 
points from her everywhere. I couldn’t tell where 
she began or where she left off. 

“Mr. Kennedy,” she gasped, out of breath. “I 
have run up all these stairs, the back way, from the 
service entrance, as fast as I could to tell you.” 

I must have shown a little lack of cordiality, or 
Clare must have read it in my face, for I was frankly 
tired. “Mr. Jameson,” she deprecated, “you know 
enough of newspaper women to realize how we are 
always on the jump for news. I must confess I am 
interested in those jewels. The more I know of 
them, the better my story will be. ... I suppose it 
is trite, but in a case like this I always look for the 
woman.” 

I felt that I must be careful of my face. It w^as 
my own rule and flashed through my mind the 
thought, “That’s precisely what I am thinking—and 
why I am watching you.” 

“I’ve been observing Olga rather closely,” she 
went on with lowered voice. “Just now I heard 
someone walking stealthily past my door and, in¬ 
stead of continuing down the main corridor, turn to 
the servants’ stairs. I’m always curious. I opened 
the door quietly. It was Olga.” 

“Are you sure?” questioned Craig. “Did you see 
her face?” 

“Not then—but I know her feet. There is only 
one Olga. I followed her. At the service door 
there was a big sedan. I heard a voice. ... I am 
sure it was the voice of Prince Vladimir.” 

“What did he say?” 

“ ‘Did anybody see you leave, Olga?’ Then she 


THE RETURN OF THE ROMANOFFS 99 

laughed nervously and said, 'No.’ Here’s the thing, 
though. I heard her ask, 'How long will it take us 
to get there?’ And he answered, 'Only about three 
hours—and you’ll be back.’ By that time the door 
was shut and they were off. I heard only one word 
more and I’m saving that as the kicker to my story, 
'The Ritz!’ ” 

“We had better follow them, Walter,” exclaimed 
Kennedy. “Thank you so much, Miss Kellard.” 

Clare was out in the hall again as skillfully as 
only Craig can manage those things. 

“No, W T alter,” he whispered, as I started to get 
ready. “You stay.” 

I put out everything but a dim pink night light 
after Kennedy had gone with as much commotion as 
if he had been two men, and waited. I quite under¬ 
stood. Sleepy though I was, I did not even allow 
myself to doze. 

It was a bit after midnight when I heard the front 
door dowmstairs open and close. That was all, but I 
knew someone had either entered or gone out. I 
tiptoed down the hall. By this time I was aware 
of every creaking board in the hall floor and knew 
how to avoid them. Down in the drawing-room I 
caught a glimpse through the portieres of Stein with 
Clare and Brock Lord. They were whispering in a 
tone that I could not overhear, and it was only a 
short visit. Stein was on his way again so soon that 
I was forced to take refuge in the shadows of a re¬ 
ception room and retrace my steps to our room 
afterwards. 

It all left me wondering. Had the alarm of Clare 
been to get us out of the way? Did they know that 
I was still there? 



9 * 


100 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


I sat up the rest of the night, and just before 
dawn, I was rewarded by the return of Kennedy. 

“Instead of getting a rest, Eve been watching 
them dance,” he muttered wearily, as he dropped 
into a big upholstered chair. 

“Dance? Where have you been?” 

“To the Ritz. You must have forgotten; this is 
the night of the big ball of the Russian Famine 
Aftermath Committee for the benefit of the recon¬ 
struction that seems to be quite as necessary as the 
famine relief was. I should say that everyone inter¬ 
ested in Russia was there—bankers and Bol¬ 
shevists.” 

“What did you learn? Anything worth the trip?” 

“I should say yes! Olga is either the most treach¬ 
erous little lady in the land—or the greatest actress 
in the world!” 

“Why—why do you feel that way about Olga?” 

“If you could have heard the conversations I 
overheard you would be spinning. Slade had a box 
at the ball. Prince Vladimir was in it. It seemed 
that from all sides there had been an insistent de¬ 
mand for Olga; Vladimir had volunteered to run 
out and get her, before the other side did.” 

Kennedy paused wearily, as he refreshed himself 
with a cigarette. Then he added in a lowered tone, 
“I overheard Vladimir actually proposing to her 
that she should be the connecting link between the 
Bolshevists and the Romanoffs. In other words, 
she has actually promised to report inside facts from 
the Bolshevist side and distort things for the benefit 
of the Romanoffs with the Bolshevists. It is the 
same old Russian game of the agent provocateur . 
Olga has some job on her hands. I wonder. . . .” 



THE RETURN OF THE ROMANOFFS 101 


“But what is it they propose?” 

“Propose? Only the putting back of a younger 
Romanoff on the throne as a constitutional mon¬ 
arch, backed by the international bankers of the 
world! The younger Romanoff looks to be Vladi¬ 
mir himself, picked by Slade, who is the mouthpiece 
of the bankers . . . and most likely Olga as his 
queen!” 

“By Godfrey! How the radicals would love their 
Olga if they knew!” 

“Then, to make the matter more confusing, I 
saw Stein come into the ballroom, late. He had a 
box on the other side of the floor. Olga saw him. 
She went over to his side—always the artiste, always 
impartial for her beloved Russia! I heard Slade 
say, as Vladimir scowled, ‘Well, she might as well 
begin here!' But he was furious, when he saw 
Stein throw her scarf about her dainty shoulders 
and bow deeply with all the passion he can put into 
those bulging eyes of his. Over there, with the 
radical element, she was just as ardent as before 
Moskowitch was murdered!” 

“But who is she working for?” I asked, bewildered. 

“I wouldn’t care if I was sure it was for me,” he 
returned. \ 

I told him of Stein’s midnight visit at the house, 
from which he must have left, finding Olga was 
gone, just in time to make his late appearance at the 

ball. 

“Do you see it?” concluded Kennedy in the break¬ 
ing dawn. “Slade and Stein in conflict over Olga— 
for Vladimir represents Slade as long as he plays 
fair. Back of Olga lies the conflict between two 
groups of international bankers. Slade is allied 



102 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


with Americans who train with the French group. 
Stein is allied with Americans who train with the 
German group. A tangled feud—complicated by 
Clare Kellard, who has set her cap for either Slade 
or Stein—ready to color her book on Russia to suit 
either purpose. That is why, really, she is holding 
back that manuscript, I am sure—to see which way 
the cat jumps, where is the most money, perhaps 
matrimony for Clare!” 

In the morning Olga was back. When we met 
Brock Lord, he was tense with subdued excitement. 

“Last night,” he imparted, “I heard a disquieting 
rumor that ‘Big Bilk Williams is somewhere in 
hiding in this country; after all, has not fled to 
Russia. Do you suppose he could have stolen 
those jewels? He knew my house like a book,” 
added Lord bitterly. 

It had been a strange, unaccountable night, end¬ 
ing with a clue to many things that we had net 
suspected and with what looked like a new lead. 



YI 


THE RUSSIAN TEA ROOM 

“Whatever it really was at that Aftermath Ball,” 
I reported to Kennedy a couple of days later, “It is 
bearing fruit. I’ve just learned from Clare that 
Olga has been coaxed away again from her vigil at 
the trance telephone.” 

Kennedy raised his eyebrows inquiringly. 

“There’s some kind of meeting, a luncheon or 
something, of those interested in the Muscovite The¬ 
atre movement at that tea room, the Caviare, in 
Greenwich Village. They’ll all be there.” 

“Then we shall be there, too. What sort of place 
is it?” 

“Oh, it’s another of those Russian tea rooms with 
a name like the Samovar that suggests Russia—and 
jazz moujik.” 

Craig frowned at my pun. “It happens to be 
backed by Stein. Did you know that?” he com¬ 
mented. 

As we went down the steps into the Russian tea 
room, I looked about. Suspended from a gilded 
metal basket was a huge sign bearing the name, “The 
Caviare.” The entrance was uninviting enough, 
but when we opened the door the scene before us 
was quite interesting. 

Clouds of smoke hung about the room. It 
seemed as if everyone was smoking those Russian 

103 


104 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

cigarettes with long hollow paper tips and a bit of 
cotton to take up nicotine, cigarettes which they 
smoked incessantly, some of them hundreds, I im¬ 
agined, in the course of a day. Brass samovars lent 
a touch of color to the rugged furniture. On the 
walls hung rich embroideries from Russia done in 
vivid colors. Everywhere there seemed to prevail a 
spirit of comradeship and enthusiasm. 

Olga's appearance was greeted with a shout of 
welcome. Doffing her cape, she revealed herself in 
the native Russian costume. It evoked such a 
storm of applause that Olga could silence it only 
with a few daintily blown kisses and a short speech 
of welcome in her native tongue. 

Among the people I could see several wealthy 
and enthusiastic American patrons of the drama and 
theatrical life of the city. There were some pro¬ 
ducers and many talkers, but there were more, the 
real high-brows, the builders of the highest in drama, 
who were trying to present true art to the American 
public. 

I listened here and there to fragments of very in¬ 
forming conversation as I noted that Stein himself 
was present. Of course Clare was much in evidence, 
being greatly lionized by the cognoscenti as a woman 
who had “done things." Here was art fraternizing 
the intelligentsia of all shades. I did not see Slade 
at first, but he came later, careful not to be too much 
with Prince Vladimir, but rather with Brock Lord, 
who was also reaping to the full for his sacrifices for 
the various causes that were running through a 
fortune. Even Barker was in the background. I 
wondered if “Big Bill" Williams might not be there 


THE RUSSIAN TEA ROOM 105 

in disguise. Ravoff was there, a bit cold to the 
smooth advances of Stein. 

One of a group of three, talking to an ignoramus 
much like myself about the third, was saying: 
“Yes, Seaman believes the Russian theater is the 
greatest in the world. It’s a creed, almost a religion 
with him. You know, he made a crusade, you 
might call it, exploring this creed. It carried him 
through war and revolution and cold and famine and 
destruction, seventeen thousand miles—think of it! 
—from America to Japan, then to Vladivostok, and 
through Siberia in winter into Moscow torn with 
strife, and Petrograd where the snow was red with 
blood.” 

The third, who was being talked of, nodded. 
“For seventeen thousand miles I persisted on my 
errand, relying on my own faith, a blind faith which 
I could hardly analyze. And at the end I found no 
disillusionment, no shattering disappointment, but a 
glorious fulfilling of all I had dreamed and hoped!” 

Somehow I liked the man, a bit chimeric, perhaps, 
but the correspondent in me went out to him. I, 
too, loved to explore the unknown and seek the un¬ 
attained. Often I have thought, if anything should 
happen to Kennedy, in my love for the search of 
mystery I should become a wanderer on the face of 
a marvelous earth. 

“He was struggling with a great problem,” I heard 
from another group. “What is the common denomi¬ 
nator of artistic excellence? He wondered if it were 
not possible to discover it and utilize it for the bene¬ 
fit of the stage. And he found it! It was simpler 
than one would suspect. It is life! The difference 
between great actors and small ones is psychological. 


106 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


It is not stage technique. Great actors invariably 
live their roles. They never act. During the hours 
behind the footlights they are the characters they 
depict as completely as if they had no other 
existence.” 

I overheard Clare. “In the bleakness of life 
which Russia presents to-day as I saw it, the theatre 
stands out solitary in its grandeur. Through the 
years of chaos it has preserved most of its original 
excellence and charm. One sees Russian life re¬ 
enacted w T ith all that wonderful humanness and 
realism that singled it out among European theaters 
before the war.” 

“The theater has survived the revolution,” put in 
Brock Lord, with keen second-hand, drawing-room 
intelligence. “It is one of the singular features of 
wars and revolutions—this persistence of the theater 
in spite of disturbances. You recall the tenacity of 
the theater throughout the French Revolution. And 
during the World War, you recall the crowded the¬ 
aters here, but more especially in London, packed 
every night.” 

The luncheon or conference or both had proceeded 
to a point where now there was an expectant demand 
that the great Olga Olanoff say something. 

Olga felt it and rose to it. Eyes glowing, she 
thanked the people for their cordial greeting. 

“Friends,” she exclaimed, spreading out her hands 
appealingly, for the real purpose of the gathering 
had been to draw into the Muscovite Theatre move¬ 
ment all group? of support. “Friends, we have come 
a long way to show you our art. It is our life to us. 
But to go on successfully we need co-operation. 
Here we need the help of those interested in worth- 



THE RUSSIAN TEA ROOM 107 

while drama in this country. We are asking you for 
your support.” 

She was interrupted for a moment by a slender 
young intellectual passing her a card. She read it 
and frowned slightly. Then she turned to the 
people and spoke sadly. 

“I am asked to tell something about the disap¬ 
pearance of the crown jewels. I wish I could, 
friends. . . . But I did not come to talk of that. . . . 
If I did not feel the importance of the growth in 
popularity of the Muscovite Theatre in this coun¬ 
try—I would be at home—with my grief.” She 
bowed her head solemnly. 

Suddenly she lifted her face proudly. “But if 
grief cannot be indulged in, then there is our won¬ 
derful Cause to cherish! ... I felt I must come as 
one of the artists to inspire support for our theatre. 
It is hard for me—to talk here with a grief so recent 
and tragic. . . . Friends—there are treasures other 
than jewels that we bury!” 

She stopped, as if in her grief she had said more 
than she had intended, then sobbingly, stumbled to 
her chair. 

There was a hush for a moment before the crowd 
burst into its mad applause for her, as if to testify 
its sympathy and love. 

“Friends—there are treasures other than jewels 
that we bury!” 

The words still rang in my ears. I glanced hastily 
at Craig, but he was eagerly scanning the faces 
before him as Olga dramatically broke down. 

Ravoff looked startled, I thought. As for Stein, 
I thought his big bulging eyes would pop out of his 
head. Clare and Lord caught themselves exchanging 



108 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


a glance. Slade, who had come in, stared piercingly 
at Olga, while Prince Vladimir smiled quietly to 
himself. 

The luncheon was really over now. To see and 
hear Olga had been the real thing, after all. The 
groups broke up in much buzzing of conversation. 

Outside, Kennedy eyed me questioningly, as if to 
see what effect it had had on me. 

“You might almost have thought Olga had done 
something incriminating when she said that,” he 
ventured. 

I shrugged. I had felt it. I said, “But could she 
be guilty? Think of her grief!” 

“Remember—she is an actress!” 

“There’s not been a clue to the jewels,” I con¬ 
sidered. “It’s strange, for except for the leather 
duffle bag, there wouldn’t seem to be a chance that 
they could have been taken out of that house after 
the discovery of Dmitri unconscious.” 

“No other way?” queried Kennedy, still watching 
keenly. 

“Everything has been scrutinized with a micro¬ 
scope and a telescope!” 

“Everything?” He paused. “What about that 
coffin? That is the only thing that has left the 
house without being searched. . . . What was in it, 
besides the body? . . . Anything?” 


YII 


% 


THE PHANTOM FINGER 

Late in the afternoon we returned to the Lord 
mansion. Olga had preceded us and as we entered 
we saw that she had been alone in conference in 
the library with Ravoff, who was about to leave. 

As we passed the library door, I thought I saw him 
look rather strangely at the now empty safe, then, as 
he caught the eyes of Kennedy and myself, turn 
away suspiciously. 

“She’s not out there listening at the trance tele¬ 
phone,” decided Craig. “It is a good time to do a 
little investigating. Let us run over to the 
cemetery.” 

His first care was to make a thorough examination 
of the trance telephone itself. So far as anything 
outward was concerned, it seemed to be as intact and 
untouched as it might be until the trump of the day 
of resurrection. 

He looked across at the buried cable that came 
over the hillside from the old Lord vault and that 
also seemed undisturbed. We walked over to the 
vault. 

The iron grating door was locked, not by an ordi¬ 
nary padlock but with a lock of some better combi¬ 
nation. Kennedy had a duplicate key and he 
inserted it carefully into the outside keyhole. 

As he swung the door open, instead of turning as 

109 


110 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

I did to an immediate examination of the slab placed 
over where the casket had been lowered, he swung 
the door partway closed, so that it came into the 
light and bent to examine the lock carefully on the 
inside. 

A quick exclamation from him brought me to his 
side. I saw him reach gingerly with his thumb and 
forefinger and literally lift one of the screws from 
the lock where it had been set on the inside of the 
iron grating door! 

He tried another. It also lifted out. So all 
around. Someone had got in and had literally de¬ 
stroyed the threads of the set screws in the door, so 
that the lock could be actually pushed in if you 
exerted pressure on it right. It was no longer a 
lock; it was a mere camouflage. 

“Someone must have been contemplating a visit 
at a time when it was necessary to get in quick, work 
quick, and get away quick! I thought the lock felt 
queer when I inserted the key.” 

I had heard of burglars doing that, before. Once 
having got into a place where they might be inter¬ 
rupted and to which they would like to make a 
sudden return, they had taken the screws from the 
lock itself, leaving it so loosened that they could 
make a re-entry at any moment they chose, almost 
instantly. The lock looked all right, was all right— 
as a lock. But it w T as no longer really fastened to 
the door. A push was all that was needed to have 
the door carry in lock and everything! 

“Don’t touch it!” warned Kennedy. 

In the fast waning daylight I saw that he had 
taken from a small pocket case a little bottle of 
white powder and a fine soft camel’s hair brush. 


THE PHANTOM FINGER 111 

Deftly he was powdering the lock with the white 
powder from the bottle. 

“Look!” 

As I now re-examined the slab where the coffin 
had been lowered I saw what were plainly finger¬ 
prints in plaster or something similar. 

With a specially prepared sensitive rather gummy 
paper of his own invention, which Craig always 
carried with him, he took off impressions of the 
fingerprints on the lock, then of the full set in rota¬ 
tion which I had discovered on the slab. 

He replaced the lock and the now useless screws 
and we returned to the Lord mansion. Kennedy’s 
first care was to call a messenger and dispatch copies 
of all the fingerprints to Deputy O’Connor in the 
city, our friend who had risen in charge of all city 
detective activities, including the fingerprint bureau 
and the files of the old Rogues’ Gallery. If anyone 
could identify those prints in his own or the other 
various agencies of the city and federal government 
concerned with fingerprints, it was O’Connor. 

“It seems that after we left, Olga went back into 
the city,” I reported to Craig, after inquiries of the 
servants, since no one at all seemed to be at home. 
“The butler who hears everything over that hall 
telephone tells me that Prince Vladimir called her 
up once. I shrewdly suspect that that is where she 
has gone—to meet her future emperor!” 

Kennedy scowled. The idea did not evidently 
please him. Still, it seemed to be a good enough 
guess on my part for him to act on it. He returned 
to the city and I heard him direct the taxi-man to 
the Ritz. 

Before the captain of all the aristocratic army of 


112 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


waiters could capture us and parade us before his 
other victim-guests, much as an old Roman con¬ 
queror used to lead his captives triumphantly down 
the way to the city, along with the treasure he had 
extorted from their miserable countrymen by way of 
a tip to refrain from further extortions, Craig 
avoided capture. Moreover, he avoided it just in 
time to escape being visible to Olga and Prince 
Vladimir, who were dining not twenty feet away on 
the left of the main floor. 

We were about to start in again as less ostenta¬ 
tious prisoners of the head waiter when Craig again 
stopped short. This time I saw that he had spied 
Stein seated at a table in a raised part of the dining 
room, where he was not visible to those on the 
main or lower portion of the floor. Stein was order¬ 
ing, but not dining. I thought it was queer when I 
saw him hand a pretty good sized tip to a sort of 
bread-and-butter boy, who circulated all about the 
room far superior to the even haughty bus-boys. 

There was nothing to do for the present but to 
edge over as best we could in the doorway and ob¬ 
serve, under the pretext that we were waiting for 
someone who had not arrived yet. The captain 
seemed haughtily vexed. I thought that any mo¬ 
ment Mr. Ritz was about to have us ejected from 
his hotel. However, Craig salved him with tribute. 

Even at this distance, I gathered that the Prince 
was not exactly pleased by Olga’s neglect of the past 
few days since the ball. Still, it was very unsatis¬ 
factory at this distance between the Scylla of Vladi¬ 
mir and the Charybdis of Stein until Craig hit upon 
another expedient. The bread-and-butter magnate 
passing us, he salved him, also. I felt it was no 


THE PHANTOM FINGER 


113 


wonder they all soon rode in Renaults. But it en¬ 
abled me quickly to reconstruct what was actually 
going on. 

It appeared that Ravoff must have received and 
left with Olga a code dispatch from Moscow relating 
to the jewels and the need of money to maintain a 
military organization, the strength of which the code 
revealed. Olga had slipped the information to 
Prince Vladimir, who was naturally delighted to ob¬ 
tain some inside check upon the strength of the 
military and naval forces. 

The bread-and-butter boy had already handed the 
account of what he had read over the shoulders of 
the two to Stein, who was studying it at his own 
table. If there is articulate pantomime in the Rus¬ 
sian theatre, there certainly was in Stein’s action. 
From the change in his look from anxiety to a broad 
expansive smile, I knew that he had inside informa¬ 
tion that proved to him that the figures being handed 
to Vladimir were false. It needed no lip reader to see 
him frame the common word, “Bunk!” as he rose 
and sauntered out, very ostentatiously now past 
Olga and the Prince. For a split second we could 
catch a knowing glance from Stein to Olga and its 
return. 

“With whom is she playing?” I demanded. 

Kennedy did not answer. He grabbed me just in 
time so that we could gain the lobby entrance before 
being seen by any of them. 

There a new surprise awaited me. Outside, 
pulled up from the carriage entrance, was Stein’s 
car with David at the wheel. In it was Clare Kel- 
lard, waiting, but now in a most excited and nervous 


114 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

way endeavoring to hurry along Slade, who had 
stopped for a moment to exchange a remark with 
her. 

Half an hour later, down town in O’Connor’s 
bureau we were handed the most astounding bit of 
information of all. When the fingerprints had been 
looked up, O’Connor had found that they coincided 
with those on file of “Big Bill” Williams! 

“Whoever he’s working for,” I exclaimed, “that 
lying son of a sea-cook will double cross them as sure 
as-•” 

“Don’t be too hasty and jump at conclusions,” 
cautioned Craig. “That’s your fault, Walter. You 
don’t put yourself in the place of the other fellow 
and ask yourself what you would do in his position. 
If you’ll look over there on O’Connor’s table in the 
third number of ‘Dactylography’ you’ll be discon¬ 
certed to learn that the practice of forging finger¬ 
prints is increasing so fast that it will soon become a 
problem for Scotland Yard—to say nothing of our¬ 
selves. Any criminal can do it if he can first obtain 
a set of fingerprints of the dupe on whom he wishes 
suspicion to fall. Transfer paper and a rubber 
stamp are one way of doing it. It can be done by 
getting a negative cast in a mold of wax, plaster of 
Paris, clay, or even bread. Then there’s a third 
process by photographing a photograph of the prints 
to be forged on a reversed plate, which is clamped to 
a duplicate plate made of gelatine mixed with 
bichromate of potassium. I can’t go into it further. 
Read it, if you want to. I suspect it is the thing 
that was used here—and has given us a phantom 
finger. It would have been literally so if it had only 






THE PHANTOM FINGER 115 

occurred to them to use finger prints of Alexis—if 
they had them! ” 

“So that this is really an elaborate smoke-screen!” 
I exclaimed, astounded at the cleverness of the 
criminal with whom we were dealing. 


VIII 

SUSPENDED ANIMATION 


There had been several hours between Olga’s 
strange break, if it had been a break, at the luncheon 
and our discovery of the possibly forged fingerprints 
of “Big Bill” Williams. Who had made this quick, 
elaborate preparation? 

Kennedy seemed to have a consuming desire to 
wind the case up quickly. He called the Interna¬ 
tional Burglary Insurance Company and for the first 
time I learned that he had been in touch with them 
secretly, over Barker’s head, so to speak, for several 
days. 

Then he hurried up to the laboratory and waited 
as if he expected something to happen. 

Suddenly the telephone rang and Craig pulled off 
the receiver expectantly. “Yes, Lord,” I heard him 
reply. “We can do it. We’ll start right away. Is 
Olga there? Good! I want to see her. We’ll be 
right out.” 

He turned to me with a broad smile. “It’s work¬ 
ing like a yeast plant! There’s something doing out 
at Lord’s now. The vice president of the Burglary 
Insurance Company is out there—and he happens to 
be a special deputy sheriff in Nassau County.” 

“I wish the Russians would keep their jewels 
home,” I growled. “I hope they don’t pay you in 

116 


SUSPENDED ANIMATION 117 

paper. Have you got a five-ton truck handy in case 
they should give you five dollars ?” 

“How do you know they are going to pay me for 
this, anyhow?” 

“I don’t. I don’t know anything.” 

When at last we arrived out at Lord’s, we found 
practically the same group of people there who had 
been present the night the jewels were stolen. Only 
the insurance company was represented by two in¬ 
stead of one. Not only was Barker, their detective, 
there, but also Thwaite, the vice president in charge 
of the company’s detective activities. 

They were all gathered in the library and Thwaite 
had before him an endless array of affidavits and 
depositions, reports and newspaper clippings. He 
seemed to have been going over the affair and giving 
them all a polite third degree. 

Evidently it had not been to their liking, for they 
seemed rather more cordial to Kennedy than they 
had been before. 

Thwaite now turned his attention to Kennedy, 
and step by step he took Craig over the ground until 
he came to the luncheon at the Caviare. Then, for 
some reason of his own, Kennedy volunteered a re¬ 
port of that which emphasized the remark of Olga: 
“There are treasures other than jewels that we 
bury!” 

“Then,” demanded Thwaite. “You mean to im¬ 
ply by that that there may be treasures other than a 
dead Russian that may be buried?” 

I thought he was pretty heartless in the way he 
put it, but I suppose callousness is part of life with 
one who has to deal with the crime and fraud that he 
must run into. 


118 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“I mean to imply nothing at all,” Craig returned 
quietly. 

“Well, have you found anything else that has not 
yet appeared in the record?” He tapped the mass 
of papers on the table before him? “Anything later, 
anything new?” 

“'Yes . . . one thing.” Craig said with a show of 
reluctance. 

“What is that?” 

“Some fingerprints.” 

It was as though Thwaite and all the rest had been 
electrified. “Fingerprints?” he demanded excitedly. 
“Whose?” 

“Well, I sent them down to Deputy O’Connor in 
the central bureau to be looked up if possible—and 
he informs me they coincide with those of ‘Big Bill’ 
Williams.” 

Either he did not choose to go on with his sus¬ 
picion of fingerprint forgery or the interruption 
satisfied him. 

“That’s perfidy!” broke in Brock Lord. “Just 
what I would think of that man. That fellow has 
been a guest at this house hundreds of times. That’s 
a fine way to repay hospitality. Where did you find 
them—on the safe?” 

Everybody looked over with one accord at the big 
safe which had once housed the treasures. Kennedy 
did not answer. 

“Where’s the death certificate?” demanded 
Thwaite harshly of Olga. 

Kennedy also looked inquiringly at her. She 
looked at him, but evidently saw no refuge. She 
lowered her eyes. 

“We had a pact . . . that he was to be exhumed 



SUSPENDED ANIMATION 119 

... on the tenth day after the burial. . . .” She 
stopped as every eye was riveted on her. 

“What!” demanded Thwaite. “And revived?” 
He was not only brutal now, but incredulous. 

“Must I answer?” she pleaded, turning again to 
Craig. 

“Yes, I’m afraid you must—sooner or later— 
either now or under a court order.” There was no 
sympathy there. 

“Yes—then—revived—if possible!” 

“So that is why you wanted that trance tele¬ 
phone?” asked Craig. 

“Yes,” in a low tone. 

It seemed that every eye was now shifted from 
Olga to Kennedy. 

“Is—is such a thing possible?” asked Clare 
tremulously. 

“Well,” replied Kennedy slowly, “there are cases 
on record of states of narcolepsy or suspended anima¬ 
tion. Science has pried into the mysterious secrets 
of the East and understands how Hindu fakirs 
buried for months and sealed up in their tombs come 
to life again.” 

“Can a human being really enter into a state of— 
of latent life?” asked Lord. 

“The answer to that is ‘Yes,’ but in so replying we 
must recollect the kind of suspended animation 
which is compatible with the delicate protoplasmic 
structure and chemical behavior of human tissues. 
Of course no mammal, no human being, can be dried 
up or frozen stiff like some of the lowlier creatures 
and yet live. But what we may admit is that life in 
man can be retained when all the vital processes have 
sunk to a minimum. What is known as trance or 



120 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


narcolepsy is the form which latent life takes in the 
human being. Every now and then we hear of 
cases, usually young women, going into profound 
and prolonged sleep from which they do not awake 
for weeks or months. During that time they take 
no food, they scarcely breathe, their heart’s action is 
at a minimum. It is, of course, quite different from 
the hypnotic or mesmeric trance.” 

"I have read of such a man in Ireland,” put in 
Slade. 

“Yes, Colonel Townsend of Dublin who could die 
or expire when he pleased and yet, by an effort, could 
come back to life again.” 

“But the fakirs,” asked Stein. “Is it not a fake?” 

Kennedy shook his head. “The narratives are 
very extraordinary. There are fakirs in India who 
are said to allow themselves to be built up in sealed 
tombs for weeks without food and to be found alive 
at the end of that time. Reports of these cases of 
human suspended animation are quite numerous, 
and seem to be authenticated by witnesses of ap¬ 
parent integrity. It would not seem to be due to 
collective hallucination on the part of so many 
people. Besides, modern science has given us a 
great many hypnotic drugs—and there may have 
been many opportunities for someone to tamper 
with the bottles in each of the special vintages we 
were served at the supper after the rehearsal that 
night in the drawing-room.” 

“There are drugs,” repeated Stein, thoughtfully. 

“I don’t believe that Alexis Moskowitch was 
buried alone!” Slade had leaped at the conclusion, 
aloud. “I don’t believe the jewels were ever really 
stolen!” 


SUSPENDED ANIMATION 


121 


Olga avoided his eyes, nervously. Slade shot a 
glance of suspicion at the Prince, who smiled 
smoothly. 

It was too much for Clare. She had risen in 
anger. “What kind of woman are you?” she de¬ 
manded of Olga. “Why don’t you answer? What 
has happened? Why have you infringed on your 
privileges as a guest and caused Brock all this trouble 
and worry?” 

I happened to glance about at the words, and saw 
that Brock Lord had quietly disappeared. 

“And made your copy for the newspapers—not so 
snappy!” retorted Olga. “Always I find a reason 
hidden behind American actions quite the same as 
among us Russians!” 

“I’ll not wait for an order from the court to ex¬ 
hume!” shouted Thwaite. 

Kennedy reached over and gestured with his hand 
palm down three or four times for quiet. “Stick 
with me!” he whispered. 

Clare had succeeded in focusing attention on Olga. 
Had it been the way of Alexis Moskowitch of getting 
an “out” on the loss? Or was it Olga’s “cover” for 
stealing for blackmail, as Barker had insisted? 

Kennedy looked at his wrist watch. “It is now 
eleven. In that case it is now the tenth day of the 
pact.” He was speaking now to Olga. “The day 
will close at two o’clock, precisely. At that hour I 
will go with you. We will do our best!” 


IX 


THE VALLEY OF DEATH 

With Thwaite and myself, Craig decided to ex¬ 
plore the interior of the mausoleum and the coffin 
even before the hour he had set with Olga Olanoff. 

Still, Craig proceeded in a very leisurely manner, 
it seemed to me in my excitement. I could not see 
how any man could be so cool and deliberate under 
such stress. 

At last we came in by the back way into the ceme¬ 
tery. Of all places at night I know none more fear¬ 
some than a cemetery. I was on edge from the 
moment we entered it. Every gravestone, every 
movement of the branches of the trees was a white 
sheeted figure or a desperate intruder to me. Even 
Thwaite’s ardor cooled considerably. 

As we picked our way over ground thickly car¬ 
peted with pine needles and found the road that 
circled the cemetery, I knew that we were approach¬ 
ing the trance telephone that Craig had set up to 
satisfy the fears of Olga. It would not have sur¬ 
prised me to see her black-suited figure there, 
listening, vainly listening. But there was no one. 

“Look!” exclaimed Kennedy, ahead. “The little 
semaphore is up!” 

He seized the delicate telephone and listened, then 
handed it quickly to me, to check on what he heard. 
I listened also in the receiver of the microphone. 

122 


THE VALLEY OF DEATH 


123 


There was a sharp, metallic noise, a knocking! 

I felt my hand shake. Was Alexis alive? Was 
he struggling to get out? In a wave of imagination 
I pictured Alexis Moskowitch in his mental prison, 
gasping, struggling, weak, frantic, desperate! 

Out of the comer of my eye I saw the semaphore 
move up and down again. 

“C-can he be alive in there—revived—after all?” 
I chattered. 

Kennedy did not answer, but started creeping, al¬ 
most, over the hill crest that separated us from the 
Lord vault. As he did so he drew a gun, which I 
had seen him slip into his pocket when we left the 
laboratory. I followed, with Thwaite behind me. 

As we rounded the hill slope and came in front 
of the Lord vault, I saw that the door had been 
forced in. That was no problem for anyone who 
knew how the screws had been loosened. Nor was 
it even a problem if one did not know. A smart 
push would accomplish it. 

Inside, Kennedy pointed in the murky, dank, un¬ 
healthy darkness. There was an earthy miasma in 
the air. I followed his finger. 

The slab in the floor had been removed. There 
lay the metal coffin. I overcame my feeling of re¬ 
vulsion and leaned down near it beside him. It had 
been pried, forced, cut open, as if with some instru¬ 
ment like the “can-opener” safe-breaking yeggmen 
use on old strong boxes. 

Kennedy lifted it. The vault had been rifled. 

“The body is gone!” I cried. 

Thwaite felt no compunction. He placed his 
hand in the coffin. 

“There are the jewels,” I spoke for him. 


124 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“But—half of them are gone!” 

Kennedy touched us silently on the shoulder. I 
saw that he was beckoning us to withdraw quickly. 
Did I hear the faint muffled chug of a motor on the 
other side of the cemetery? 

He drew us into the shadow of a thicket in the 
heavily laden night. I wondered whether our vigil 
would be rewarded. The soughing of the night wind 
in the evergreens, mournful at best, was doubly so 
now. The seconds seemed hours. 

“Sh!” 

There was a hesitating crunching of gravel on the 
walk. There was a solitary dark figure. Before 
either of us could move, make up our minds whether 
it was of this world or another, Craig had darted 
from our concealing shadows. 

I heard a suppressed little scream. It was Olga! 

He drew her with him toward us, where, waiting 
behind some heavy boxwood, we strained our eyes in 
the darkness for the ghoul, the body-snatcher, to 
return for the rest of the loot. 

It was weird, uncanny, unlovely in a graveyard at 
night. But Thwaite was evidently thinking of a 
graveyard of his hopes, if he failed. 

“Even at that the Company is stuck! ” He said it 
half accusingly at Craig, but with more of menace to 
Olga. “Half of them are gone—unless we succeed!”' 

Olga laughed. Thwaite turned on her fiercely. 
But she did not give him a chance. 

“Those jewels were only paste replicas that the 
Crown Jewels Committee had made up—for emer¬ 
gency protection!” 

Thwaite groaned. “Then—even half of them— 
are not—safe?” he demanded. 



THE VALLEY OF DEATH 


125 


“They are all safe!” exclaimed Kennedy. “They 
have been safe from the first. The real jewels lie 
unsuspected in my own laboratory. I say unsus¬ 
pected, because even Mr. Jameson didn't know that 
until this minute. They were removed by agree¬ 
ment with Madame Olanoff during the evening, and 
the paste jewels were the only ones in the house— 
up in her own room—at the time I framed up his 
sleepmaker unconsciousness with Dmitri at the open 
safe. ... I think the success of this auction will be 
assured. In that aspect it is going to be one of the 
greatest publicity stories ever perpetrated!” 

“But,” stammered Thwaite, his mind in a whirl. 

“At the same time that I wanted the jewels to be 
perfectly safe, I wanted also to catch the thief who 
had made two attempts before to steal them. It was 
equally important to American justice and the 
Russian Soviet to know who that was.” 

As I began to untangle the skein of intrigue, the 
thought in my mind was of the danger to Alexis 
Moskowitch in such an experiment. That was in¬ 
deed risking one's life for one's country! 

Where was the body of Alexis? Had it been at 
the cost of his life? It was now the beginning of 
the eleventh day! 

The suspended animation must end in either re¬ 
vival or actual death. 

Could it be that someone had killed a living dead 
man? 

Who was it that had carried off a part of the ap¬ 
parent treasure and the body—hence might have 
killed him? I thought of Brock Lord with his fine 
estate in jeopardy, of Vladimir with his ambitions 
and passions and expensive tastes, of Stein seeking 



126 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


jewels always to add to his properties, of Slade who 
would recoup his worthless bonds at the expense of 
those who had made them so, even of Ravoff and his 
rather treacherous actions, of Clare Kellard, friend 
of Brock Lord, and social climber. 

“Sh!” came from Kennedy to Olga and Thwaite. 

Down the hill now, from the direction of the 
muffled purring motor, I saw wjiat looked like two 
figures. Who were they? I could not distinguish 
whether they were two men or a man and a woman. 
They were approaching the door of the mausoleum. 

I fairly jumped as I saw a spot of light at my 
feet. 

“It’s my flashlight revolver,” muttered Kennedy, 
“the most accurate ‘gat’ in the world in the darkness. 
A perfectly good gun is all right. So is a perfectly 
good flashlight. But you may miss. Hitch them 
together—and you draw a bead with your very 
light!” 

There was a shout as Kennedy’s bead of light 
began to travel swiftly, unerringly, like a finger of 
doom toward the figures. 

They turned—ran—separated. 

“Crack!” 

One on whom the beam of light fell, groaned and 
stumbled, sank. 

The other zigzagged through the shadows— 
untouched. 


X 


THE CROOK INTERNATIONALE 

As we crashed over to where the groaning form 
lay near a granite shaft, I saw that it was Barker. 

Thwaite himself nearly collapsed in surprise. 

Across the still night air now came the raucous 
chug of the motor as it sped, cut-out open, with 
every advantage, even the dampness of the air mix¬ 
ing with the gas, to give it speed. 

“Who was it, Barker?” demanded Kennedy. 
“Come clean!” 

Kennedy bent over to stop the flow of blood from 
Barker’s useless leg as Clare and Slade, having heard 
the shot, pushed forward. Curiosity had taken 
them out to the cemetery. 

Barker muttered, but it was of his wound, not 
confession. 

“It seems the darkness must have bristled with 
eyes!” Slade had caught sight of Stein coming up 
the hill. 

“Who’s that?” 

A spectacled figure with horn eyeglasses gleaming 
in the spot of Kennedy’s flashlight-gun, appeared, 
Ravoff. 

Olga uttered a happy cry. 

“Ah—” exclaimed Kennedy, “—the body!” 

Olga had flung her arms about Ravoff. As the 
useless glasses fell off I saw that they restored a part, 

127 


128 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

at least, of the looks that shaving off a beard had 
destroyed. 

“Alexis!” she laughed in hysterical happiness. 

“What’s this—a reunion?” puzzled Brock Lord as 
he panted up the hill. 

“Yes, Mr. Thwaite,” muttered Barker, “I framed 
it with this fellow—he’s an international crook—I 
knew all about the client of the Company, Olga 
Olanoff, and the jewels—but I didn’t think there was 
a paste set—or that she’d drag Kennedy in!” He 
looked about, propped against the granite pillar. 
“So—this Ravoff is Alexis—eh? Then no one was 
ever buried!” 

Kennedy smiled quietly. “No, we fixed that with 
the local physician at the ‘death’ of Alexis. The 
trance telephone was merely a burglar alarm in a 
trap to catch you and your friend. Alexis, I agree 
with you. Your wife is the greatest actress in the 
world!” 

Loud voices of altercation came from the road 
and as we turned we could see the motorcycle cop of 
the county who should have been off duty hours be¬ 
fore except for Kennedy and Thwaite. With a gun 
poked into the small of his back, he was prodding 
ahead Prince Vladimir. 

“As fine a pair of international crooks as ever 
preyed on society,” beamed Kennedy, “now preying 
on the Soviet—because it has no friends!” 



“The Brass Key” 




“THE BRASS KEY” 


I 

THE BRASS KEY 

“I have sworn to catch the criminal who has 
stolen his mind! . . . But if I catch the person I 
suspect, I’m afraid I may catch the girl I love!” 

In the clutter of baggage, trunks, boxes, valises, 
Jeff Jermine, the artist, stood in the middle of his 
studio on West Eleventh Street, agitated, perplexed, 
appealing. 

“Em spinning, Kennedy!” he exclaimed, “just 
simply spinning!” Jeff paused, involuntarily, jerk¬ 
ing his head toward a closed door at the far end of 
the big room. “Well I may be—with a crazy man— 
my best friend—locked in that bedroom!” 

I listened. Through the door now I could hear 
labored breathing. 

“Who is in there?” demanded Kennedy. 

“It’s Wallace Dalrymple, the architect, retired, 
you know, with a bit of a fortune. Dal was in splen¬ 
did health until last night . . . this morning . . . 
and now . . . I’ve had Dr. Hamilton, the alienist, 
here, but he won’t say anything, yet. He is sending 
one of his male nurses, Radway, to keep Dal under 
observation. Meanwhile, I’m keeping him here. 
No one else knows where he is. I have a reason. 

131 



132 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


The thing's unnatural; there's nothing in it like any¬ 
thing you ever heard before." 

“Yes," said Kennedy, encouragingly, “but—the 
girl—why-" 

“Why, we just came up on the boat together from 
Vera Cruz. You know since Dal retired he's taken 
up archeology; his hobby has always been prehistoric 
America. My friend, Dellora Delmar, was on the 
boat. She became quite friendly with Dalrymple. 
You see, she was traveling with her friend, Bonita 
Hernandez, who lives with her here in the city. 
Bonita was Dal’s second wife—divorced. After we 
sailed, Bonita started for New York by rail—arrived 
here just ahead of us. . . . Well, the friendship on 
the boat continued a day or two after we arrived— 
and, now—this!" 

Though there was little that was coherent, Jer- 
mine’s fears were evident and real enough to himself. 

“If it should turn out that this Dellora is respon¬ 
sible in some way," queried Craig, “will you stand 
for my going on with the case?" 

Jermine stared, startled. There seemed to.be in 
him a terrific struggle between loyalty to his life¬ 
long friend and love for the girl. 

“I suppose," he hesitated, “I’ll have to!" He 
paused. “I’m thinking of little Daisy Dalrymple, 
his daughter by his first wife—my sister. . . . Ken¬ 
nedy, her death was a blow to him. He retired from 
his profession, decided to travel, with me. We left 
Daisy in New York to be educated at the most ex¬ 
clusive schools, under the charge of her old gov¬ 
erness, Ellen Burns. Ellen had married a fellow 
named John Sterling who has bought and rebuilt, 





THE BRASS KEY 133 

with the help of Dalrymple, one of those old houses 
in Sutton Place overlooking the East River. 

“But every two or three months Dal feels he must 
come back to New York, because he must see Daisy, 
be near her. He keeps his own former studio apart¬ 
ment where they lived before her mother died, up on 
Fifty-ninth Street, facing the Park, the Belleaire. 
But he’s never in it, even when he’s here. He 
spends most of his time at the Hispanic Museum 
. . . with frequent visits to see Daisy in her new old 
home in Sutton Place. . . 

“Let me see him,” cut in Kennedy, imperatively. 
Wallace Dalrymple was a handsome man even as 
he sprawled, his long legs at ridiculously unsym- 
metrical angles, hunched up in a corner of Jermine’s 
four-poster, his clothes wrinkled and awry, resting 
his head, with its rumpled shock of splendid iron- 
gray hair, on his hand with elbow jammed into the 
pillow. 

Big, staring eyes looked straight ahead at us. Yet 
it was evident that he did not see. “He seems 
rather weak on his feet,” whispered Jermine. “All 
in.” 

Kennedy took his wrist. “Pulse—feeble—rapid.” 

“Water!” demanded Dalrymple suddenly. “My 
throat is so dry!” 

Jermine reached him a glass of ice water. He 
took it as he felt his hand touch the cold glass. But 
he could not seem to drink. Kennedy moved closer 
and it was only with difficulty that the water was 
forced down. 

“Staring—and can’t see,” I muttered. “Thirsty 
—and can’t drink!” 

“Look at his tongue—fiery red!” whispered Ken- 



134 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

nedy to me. “Do you notice this red eruption on his 
skin?” 

Dalrymple had taken to rocking slowly back and 
forth with the sort of monotonous gurgle in his 
throat which we had heard. 

The door at the hallway end of Jermine’s studio 
opened and we caught the accents of a child. Both 
Craig and I started involuntarily to move out of the 
bedroom. 

“Kennedy, come here a minute,” called Jermine, 
from outside; then quickly, “Close that door!” 

A few seconds later we were looking into the 
sweetest of eyes of a little girl, about fourteen. 

“Daisy, this is Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Jameson— 
fr-friends of your father,” hastily added Jermine. 

She gave us a look of frank appraisal. Her glance 
lingered longest on Kennedy. Then, with a nod 
more of approval than recognition, she stepped for¬ 
ward and extended her hand graciously. 

“Where is Daddy, Uncle Jeff?” she asked, turn¬ 
ing. “I want to see him so badly. I wrote to him a 
couple of days ago. Nurse and I wondered why he 
hadn’t come to the house or written. Oh, let me see 
my Daddy, right away. Is he in that room?” 

Before we could stop her, she rushed down the 
short passage and into the room where her father 
was lying. 

Jermine had started after her to stop her, to get 
her out. But Craig held up his hand with a laconic, 
“Don’t!” Evidently he wanted to observe the 
man’s mentality. 

Not aware of her father’s real condition, Daisy ran 
across the bedroom with childish happiness and sat 
down quickly on the side of the bed. 


THE BRASS KEY 


135 


Dalrymple did not move. No intelligence 
gleamed from his eyes. He seemed merely to en¬ 
dure the childish caresses in silence. As I watched, 
my heart went out to the forlorn little girl on the 
bed. 

“Daddy! Daddy! Look at me! It's your little 
sweetheart, Daisy! . . . Oh, say something, Daddy! 
. . . Don’t you know me? Why . . . why . . . 
what’s the matter?” Scrambling from the bed, eyes 
now dilated with fear and sorrow, Daisy forgot 
everybody except Craig. “Mr. Kennedy! Tell me 
—will he die? Will he ever love me again? Oh, 
my dear, dear father. They took my mother away 
from me . . . now are they going to take my father, 
too?” 

She ran up to Craig, took his hand, pleaded, and 
begged him to make her father well. Great tears 
were rolling down her cheeks as she pulled Kennedy 
over to her father’s bedside. Silently pointing her 
little hand at him, she looked up at Craig with de¬ 
spair in her eyes. Craig put his arm about her 
tenderly and smoothed her curls softly. 

“Cry it out, Daisy. Somebody has been unkind 
to your father, but we are going to get him well 
again. . . . Only there is one thing you must do. If 
anyone asks you if you know me, or if anybody other 
than your nurse, or Uncle Jeff, or Mr. Jameson, asks 
questions about our father—you don’t know any¬ 
thing.” 

She looked at Kennedy through her tears and 
nodded. “No one will get anything from me, Mr. 
Kennedy. I have had no mother for so long and 
Daddy has been away so much that I have had to 
think harder than most children do about making 


136 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

friends. I don't make many . . . and I don't talk 
much." 

“A little girl after my own heart," smiled Craig. 

Daisy was prepossessing, too. Big brown eyes, 
dimples in her cheeks, and long brown curls falling 
past her shoulders, and about her the suggestion of 
strength of character and good sense. She was of 
the unusual type, the real thinker. 

“There are three questions I want to answer right 
away," remarked Kennedy to Jermine as I took 
Daisy out into the studio. “By whom could this 
have been done, why, and how? What had he been 
engaged in, what work?" 

“Well, you know his hobby. Perhaps you are fa¬ 
miliar, maybe not, with the aboriginal Toltecs, the 
Mistecas, the Aztecs, and the Mayas who adopted 
many Toltec things?" Jermine looked about his 
studio walls and I saw that they were full of Mexi¬ 
can curios. “You’ve seen some of their gold and 
silver and copper." He picked up a knife. “They 
made even cutting tools of copper. Oh, Dal had a 
great interest in prehistoric records and inscriptions 
of Mitla, the great city and temple of the Mayas, in 
everything ancient, down there." 

Jermine stood balancing the knife, not as if hesi¬ 
tating to tell us all, but as if in doubt just how to 
tell it. 

“You know," he said finally, “we are fairly sure 
that in Mexico before the white man spoiled a grow¬ 
ing culture, the Aztecs smelted a natural bronze from 
a mixture of copper and tin ores. Dal was an archi¬ 
tect by profession and so he got interested in 
archeology. But at college he had been a shark at 


THE BRASS KEY 137 

geology. Once he was going to take it up as his life 
work, but didn’t. 

“Now,” added Jermine, fixing his eye on Kennedy 
and coming closer, “there is copper in the Mexican 
states of Jalisco and Guerrero. Also in Lower Cali¬ 
fornia. Here was an archeologist delving into the 
hieroglyphics of the Mexican aborigines. People 
called him, often, ‘the fool.’ But he was seeking, 
Kennedy, what he called, the Copper Key. In other 
words, where did the copper come from? There was 
a tradition that somewhere there was a gigantic de¬ 
posit of free or rather nearly free copper. Maybe 
it was just superstition among the natives handed 
down from the dark ages. But anyhow in his studies 
he was seeking something that would show the 
source of the ores—to the north—perhaps in Sonora 
—perhaps in our own Southwest—perhaps even 
much further north in the mountains. He didn’t say 
much. But I’ve been wondering. Had he gone 
down there this time to check up? Had he found 
his secret? Was that why he was so anxious to get 
back?” 

“Oh, Mr. Kennedy!” interrupted Daisy’s eager 
voice. 

Craig turned toward her encouragingly. 

“I saw something about Daddy that was unusual 
the last time I went up to the Central Park apart¬ 
ment with him. We always spend so much time 
together when he is back in New York. We go up 
there and talk about my dear mother and I promise 
him I’ll never forget her and he tells me all about 
the happy times they had when I was a baby. Oh, 
Daddy is so good to me!” 

“What did he do, Daisy?” prompted Kennedy. 


138 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“Well, Father had a big paper with some draw¬ 
ings and pictures and figures on it. He had it spread 
out on the little table that holds Mother’s picture. 
I had a book and was reading. I don’t know; it was 
some more of that old Mexican stuff . . . 

“Suddenly I heard Daddy make a noise out loud. 
I looked up and he was saying to himself, T’ve got 
it—I believe I’ve got it!’ He seemed to be tracing 
something on the paper. Then when he finished, 
he made a mark on a map. He looked up and saw 
Mother’s picture. He picked it up and was talking 
to it. Tt will be a great thing for America*—and for 
Daisy!’ he said. I tried to get him to tell me what 
he was talking about, but all he would do was to 
kiss me and say, ‘Daisy, you are getting more and 
more like her every time I see you!’ ” 

Jermine’s door buzzer interrupted us. 

“Oh, Radway?” nodded Jermine. Then, with 
another nod to us to keep Daisy engaged, he man¬ 
aged to get the nurse into the room with Dalrymple. 

“Who is this Dellora Delmar?” asked Kennedy of 
Jermine, who rejoined us, evidently eager to get 
Daisy away. 

“Oh, a newspaper woman,” he said quickly. 
“There’s a little crowd of us, who go now and then 
to Gitano’s place, ‘El Toro.’ I imagine Jameson 
knows of it, down here on Eighth Street, run by 
Gitano Guerrero?” I nodded. “Oh, there’s Allan 
Walworth who is a sort of promoter—Walworth, you 
might say, is my rival, as far as Dellora is concerned. 
He admires her publicity ability very greatly. 
Then, there’s Bonita Hernandez, you know, and a 
mining engineer, a mighty well-informed chap who 
has traveled all up and down the earth, Noyes, Gil- 


THE BRASS KEY 


139 


bert Noyes. But,” he lowered his voice, “it’s not 
here in New York, or even down there; it’s that trip 
up on the boat. I’m afraid Dellora knows more 
about it than she should. She is a clever girl—too 
clever. I admire her—I love her—but ” 

“Daisy, did you ever hear of a woman called 
Bonita?” Kennedy rose and went over to the big 
chair where the child was sitting. “Did your father 
ever tell you anything about her?” he continued, as 
he sat down on the arm of the chair, trying to gain 
her confidence. 

“Oh, yes.” She looked up at him with trust in her 
big brown eyes. “Daddy married her—but she 
wasn’t nice to him. After a while she left him, got 
a lawyer, or something. I never saw her and she 
would never come to see me. Daddy told me she 
always seemed jealous of me.” 

“Were they married long?” 

“No. ... You see, she was good to Daddy once 
when he first went down to Mexico. He had a dread¬ 
ful fever and nearly died. This Bonita nursed him 
and when he got well she told him she had no friends 
or money. So Father married her so he could take 
care of her.” 

“Is that all you know about her, dear?” 

“That is all I know. But I heard my nurse say 
that she didn’t get enough money when she pulled 
the old man’s leg—that that was why she left him. 
I didn’t know what she meant—and I had forgotten 
it until you just asked.” 

“Some crowd!” exclaimed Jermine. “Not a 
thought by any of them of the rights of a poor little 
fourteen-year-old girl! I feel like a piece of copper 
myself. You know they separate copper from the 



140 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

‘gangue,’ as they call it, with which it has been 
associated in the lower regions—get that, lower 
regions. Yes. ... I have been crushed, jigged, 
slimed, roasted, converted, fused—and thoroughly 
intermingled—just like a piece of copper ore. Oh, 
Fm no longer exclusive!” 

There was a noise from the bedroom. We man¬ 
aged to leave Daisy near the hall door. 

“The only thing that seems to quiet him when 
he gets one of these paroxysms is a cigarette,” nod¬ 
ded Radway. “He seems to prefer these Mexican 
things rolled in straw-” 

“Corn husks,” corrected Jermine. 

“All right. Corn husks. Like a tamale.” 

Kennedy picked up a couple of the butts and took 
two or three unsmoked cigarettes from the case 
Dairymple carried. 

“I must get Daisy out of this—home—it’s getting 
late,” whispered Jermine. “She mustn’t see it. 
Here—let me give you the key to his apartment. 
Maybe, you’ll find something there; something like 
what Daisy mentioned.” 

Jermine put his hand in Dalrymple’s pocket to 
take out a key ring. 

As he did so, a wild blow from Dalrymple’s hand 
barely missed his face. Jermine dodged back just 
in time. 

“My God, he’s got some swing, yet!” 

“No!” thundered Dalrymple with glaring sight¬ 
less eyes. “Not that! Anything but that! There’s 
danger in that key! They all know it! They all 
want it!” 

Jermine nodded to us, as he reached into his own 






THE BRASS KEY 141 

waistcoat pocket. “I’ve got a duplicate to his apart¬ 
ment key. Here.” 

“But why should he say that—danger?” I asked. 
“It’s not that key he means. Whenever he gets 
that way—in one of those fits—he clutches his key 
ring. It has on it a big brass key. . . . That’s the 
one he means. He sleeps with it clutched in his 
hand, like a vise. ... It wouldn’t do any good to 
take it away from him, either, as far as I can see. 
He cannot—will not, at least—tell what it unlocks. 
But he guards it with an insane jealousy.” 

“Why?” I asked. 

Jermine merely shrugged to express his ignorance. 


II 


i FORTUNE HUNTERS 

Kennedy and I made a thorough search of 
Dalrymple’s studio apartment. 

Dalrymple had quite apparently been deeply im¬ 
pressed by both the beauties and permanence of 
copper. It was fading twilight and Kennedy now 
and then flashed his pocket searchlight about, rather 
than by a light betray our presence in the apart¬ 
ment. There must have been a score of beautiful 
brass candlesticks about. In a fireplace shone mas¬ 
sive brass andirons. A bronze bust and other bronze 
art objects testified to Dalrymple’s passion, as did 
jardinieres of hammered copper and ash trays 
stamped out of sheet copper. 

Kennedy carefully examined the archeologist’s 
collection of copper beads, and ornaments, copper 
knives, hatchets, awls, axes, arrowheads, and spear¬ 
heads. 

“As much of the work of these early men as they 
did in copper, we know,” remarked Kennedy. 
“Other stuff has perished, most of it. But the copper 
and bronze seem eternal. This is a wonderful col¬ 
lection, even what is here. Look, here’s his stuff 
from Mitla.” 

Mitla, I knew, was south of the city of Oaxaca, 
and there, in its ruined palaces, was the crowning 
achievement of the old Zapotec kings. No ruins in 

142 


FORTUNE HUNTERS 143 

America were more elaborately ornamented or richer 
in lore for the archeologist. 

Dalrymple had brought up porphyry blocks with 
quaint grecques and much hieroglyphic painting. 
Already unpacked were half a dozen copper axes, 
some of the first of that particular style that had 
ever been brought up here. Beside the sculptured 
stones and the mosaics were jugs, cups, vases, little 
gods, sacrificial stones, enough to have equipped a 
section of a museum in themselves. 

In a niche was an idol, a hideous thing on which 
frogs and snakes squatted and coiled. It was a 
gruesome thing; it almost sent a shudder over me. 
If I had been inclined to the superstitious, I might 
have attributed Dalrymple’s predicament to it, 
traced to it retribution for having disturbed the lares 
and penates of a dead race. 

“Here’s Daisy’s letter,” remarked Kennedy, as 
he bent the flashlight rays on it and read: 

“Dear Daddy: 

“Here are your kisses 

xxxxxxxxxx 

“I want to see you just as soon as you can come over. 
Nurse is going to have a big cake to-morrow night for my 
birthday and I am going to cut it and give you the largest 
piece. 

“It seems so long since I have seen you—just ages and 
ages to me. I have some .reports from school to show you 
and I am glad my marks are getting better. I try so hard, 
Daddy. I am just going to earn that trip you promised 
me if I did well in school. 

“Tell Uncle Jeff to come to my birthday dinner, too. I 
want you both. I have a pretty new dress to wear and 
Nurse tells me I look just like Mother in it. I am going 
to wear it for you, dear Daddy. Lots and lots of love from 

“Daddy’s little girl, 

“Daisy.” 


144 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“Rather a contrast,” he remarked as he held out 
a card from Gitano’s on which was written: 

“Try to be over Thursday night. We may learn some¬ 
thing about the new government. You are interested in 
your permits for archeological digging. 

“Gitano.” 

“Thursday night,” I considered. “Why, to¬ 
night’s Thursday night.” 

“Sh!” from Kennedy. 

He flashed out the light in his hands. I glanced 
about nervously, but dared not move or say a thing 
until I knew what had caused Craig’s alarm. 

Then I could hear a peculiar, scratching noise 
from the private hall. Closer we crept. Someone 
was picking the lock! 

We were only on the third floor of the apartment 
house. It would have been possible for someone 
to have sneaked in when the elevator boy was away 
from the switchboard, if the operator was at dinner, 
I thought. 

The picking continued. WTiat would we face 
when the lock picker shot the bolts and plungers? 

Suddenly there reverberated through the outside 
hall the clang of an elevator door and a shout. There 
was a scurry of feet as if down the marble stairs. 

Kennedy flung open the still locked door. But 
we were too late for anything except the colored 
elevator boy, who almost ran into us as he sped 
down the hall. 

Around the bend of the stairway as we peered 
in the half light I could make out a girl, a very 
beautiful girl, half disclosed, half hidden in the dusk 
as she leaped lightly down past the second floor. 


FORTUNE HUNTERS 


145 


Pursuit was useless. She was already at the first. 
An instant and she would be out in the hurrying 
homeward throng on the crosstown thoroughfare 
and lost. She had made a get-away. 

“I think we’ll accept the invitation to Dalrymple 
and dine at El Toro,” concluded Kennedy, after we 
had made our own explanations to the alarmed ele¬ 
vator man and insured more careful watch of the 
apartment in which, so far, we had discovered 
nothing. 

As we neared the entrance of El Toro, I was quite 
amused. These ramshackle Greenwich Village en¬ 
trances are really funny. On each side of a pair of 
bright red painted barn doors were wrought-iron 
lights supported by two bulls in most belligerent 
rampancy. These gates opened and shut with a 
creak and a bang revealing two black doors inside, 
which made a better if not so picturesque a protec¬ 
tion against the weather. 

Inside, the walls were of brick with wide rough 
joinings. Someone with the modern artistic idea 
had taken a brush of whitewash and daubed it here 
and there. The floors were of wide black painted 
strips of wood. The table legs and chairs were 
black. But the tops of the tables were painted a red 
that would have gladdened the eye of any matador. 

On the walls were painted posters, unique in con¬ 
ception and finely executed. The artist had caught 
the spirit of the matador. They were full of action 
and virility. The Spanish girls in other posters, in 
their dark hair, draped with black lace mantillas, 
dancing the fandango or some such dance, and shak¬ 
ing their castanets, breathed all the passion and fire 
of the race. 


146 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“Wouldn’t you like to have some of those 
posters?” asked Kennedy. “They are the best of 
the sort I have seen.” 

Glancing about, now, I could see that people were 
eating from bare table tops and the napkins were 
little squares of bright red linen. I could not but 
be impressed with the difference in the people here 
from those in other restaurants and cabarets in the 
city, even different from the other places in the 
Village which are all, of course, “so different.” 

Mexicans, Spaniards from all over Latin America, 
even Japanese, all the adventurer types were pres¬ 
ent. Good fellowship seemed to be everywhere and 
everybody knew everybody else. They might be 
different, but they were not indifferent. 

I smiled at Craig when two rather pretty girls 
came along and seated themselves at our table. 
One of them leaned over and with a gleam of devil¬ 
ment in her eyes trilled, “Will senor let me tell him 
his fortune?” She took my hand to read the lines, 
incidentally squeezing it rather more than neces¬ 
sary. I returned it. A repressed giggle, an arch¬ 
ing glance under dusky eyelashes and her pressure 
became even tighter. 

“You are no fortune teller, Juanita. You are 
fortune hunter!” the other girl laughed. 

Craig seemed to enjoy the episode. He asked the 
girls what they would like him to order, let them 
do their own ordering, and we were soon laughing 
and talking as if we had known Juanita and Dolores 
all our lives. I was trying to make out whether they 
were what the Americano might call gold diggers, 
or whether that was just a way they had. 

Before I could make up my mind, I noticed a girl 


FORTUNE HUNTERS 


147 


sitting alone at a table as if waiting for someone. 
The thing that caught my attention first was when I 
heard someone mention her name: Bonita. 

Bonita was a very beautiful woman, if you like 
them dark. Black hair, black eyes, olive skin, and 
just enough dark circles under the eyes to lend an 
air of mystery and enhancement to the face. 
Shadows bring out character. 

“Dolores, do you know that girl?” I nodded in 
Bonita’s direction. 

“Indeed—so. I know everybody here. I will 
bring her here.” She left the table and went over 
to Bonita. 

With many gestures and much conversation, 
Bonita was soon seated at our table and we were 
making very merry over some queer Mexican drink 
that had slipped past the authorities. 

Immediately, as if it were a second nature, Bonita 
was trying to enthrall Kennedy. Her chair was 
next to his. I thought she would be in his lap in a 
moment. They seemed very cordial girls, I must 
say. 

“All, Bonita—may I join you?” Behind me I 
heard a man’s voice. I may have been wrong, but 
I fancied I detected displeasure in his tone. 

Bonita turned her head slowly upward and, with 
a languorous look and a lazy wave of the hand that 
held her cigarette, motioned him to draw up a chair. 
She moved a little closer to Kennedy. 

“Ah, Gilbert, be seat! Now let me make you 
acquaint.” We soon found that our new friend was 
Noyes, the mining engineer about whom Jermine 
had told us. 


148 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“There are charms a man can never forget—and 
you have them all!” 

Bonita looked languishingly at Craig. As for me, 
I nearly choked over his speech. He seemed to mean 
it so much. In a second I felt he was going to date 
her up. Craig in the role of making love to a Mexi¬ 
can went to my esophagus. 

I saw that Noyes was green with jealousy. At 
least, he was trying to convey to Bonita by admoni¬ 
tory glances not to make any further appointments 
with Kennedy. Bonita either did not see them or 
would not. At any rate she ignored them. 

Meanwhile I saw that Jermine had come in. He 
was wise. He did not even give us a tumble. He 
carried it out to the end, too. He waited until 
something happened that caused us to be introduced 
to him. Meanwhile he chatted with Gitano, a sleek, 
shiny-haired, very polished Latin, who I am sure 
must have been classed as “cientifico” 

They were joined by a Japanese from another 
table. Ordinarily all of our little yellow brothers 
look pretty much alike to me. But I happened to 
know this one. He was Kanakura, the curio dealer, 
with a wonderful shop on Fifth Avenue. As I looked 
about, I could not but be impressed that it was in¬ 
deed a cosmopolitan crowd. 

Departures and arrivals were speeded and wel¬ 
comed loudly by name. 

“Good evening, Dellora. . . . Hello, Walworth!” 
I felt that Jermine had made this just a bit louder 
for our benefit. 

It was Dellora Delmar. Kennedy had heard it, 
too, even before Bonita took it up. He turned 
simultaneously with me. 




FORTUNE HUNTERS 


149 


As for me, I almost jumped out of my seat. It 
was the face of the girl who had tried to pick 
Dalrymple’s lock at the Belleaire—and had got 
away! 

Vaguely, now, as I studied her, I seemed to re¬ 
member her. I had seen her somewhere before. But 
I could not place her. 

Dellora Delmar was a woman of enticement and 
charm. She couldn’t help it. A graceful carriage 
with a splendid figure and a piquant face made her 
many admirers. She was a jolly companion. As one 
soon learned from her animated conversation, her 
ability to mimic anything and anybody would have 
made her a fortune on the stage. It made her many 
friends in life. There was always a crowd about 
Dellora, and they were usually laughing. 

“Come—let us move the tables up—three of 
them—so!” 

It was done by Dellora and Bonita as if they were 
partners; or at least neither they nor their mutual 
friends could long be separated. Perhaps they were 
like some girls I once knew; each was afraid that the 
other might know someone she didn’t. I could see 
that this party which was brewing was going to be 
a rip-snorter. 

Moving the tables did not seem to interfere with 
a discussion going on between Gitano and Kanakura. 

“Copper and bronze are the key metals of civiliza¬ 
tion and culture,” Kanakura was saying. “You say 
it is iron? That is unstable. Only copper is 
permanent.” 

I felt that the conversation was just a bit 
Greenwich-Villagy. Still, I felt that if it verged too 
much on Mankind in the Making or a new Outline 




150 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


of History, we had with us womankind in the mak¬ 
ing who would quickly head it off. 

“Man’s copper key,” put in Walworth, “unlocked 
civilization. That is true, Kanakura. It was a key 
that unlocked the future in different parts of the 
world at different times, but it unlocked it. Yes. 
And to-day the copper key unlocks a more perma¬ 
nent future—a future in which the present may be 
preserved, instead of rusting and rotting, as it does.” 

Kanakura’s beady eyes seemed to snap. “Yes! 
Bronze is copper and tin; brass is copper and zinc. 
I have been reading a book, one of your new ones. 
A civilization rose between bronze and brass. The 
Bronze Age was about 3500 years Before Christ. 
Brass, I believe, was discovered or invented, not 
long before the year 1. It is wonderful how you in 
the West—and we in the East—are civilized by 

metals—and-” he caught the eye of Dellora and 

bowed “—and by the ladies!” 

In a flash it came to me. Dellora was the girl I 
had seen in the Japanese curio shop on Fifth Avenue 
as a stenographer when, at the time of the recent 
Washington conference on disarmament, I had been 
sent out on a wild goose chase for a Jap plot story 
of some kind or other for the Star. 

My thought a moment before had been a correct 
intuition. The girls would not long allow of a con¬ 
versation on the philosophy of history. Time sped 
around the clock before any of us realized it. 

We were enjoying the wild antics of some bizarre 
people at other tables about us, when the lights 
flashed out quickly and on again just as quickly. 

“Ah, Gitano, you’re not afraid of the police, are 
you?” came a chorus. 




FORTUNE HUNTERS 


151 


Gitano smiled and nodded. Then, bending over, 
he said to Dellora, loud enough so that only we could 
hear, “You know, Dellora, I am not afraid of the 
police or the enforcement. I pay! But there is 
word that to-night I do not get for what I pay! 
So—discretion! And Bonita tell me she have some 
new fine mescal—and pulque?—that she have bring 
up with her, eh? I want to be a little more merry 
before I am a little more sad, eh?” 

Gitano went over to Bonita, put his hands on her 
shoulders, bent over and kissed her hair, raising his 
face with a most ecstatic smile. 

Shouting and laughter and clapping of hands 
greeted this romantic action of Gitano. 

“Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Jameson, you will come, too?” 

We were delighted with Bonita’s invitation. 

“To the Queen of all Mescal!” bowed Kennedy. 

Juanita put her arms about my neck and whis¬ 
pered: “I show you what a mescal mash is!” The 
invitation in her eyes was passionate and alluring, 
as we gathered ourselves together and chartered all 
the available taxis at the door for the ride of three 
blocks to the famous quarters of Dellora and Bonita. 


Ill 


WHAT WOMEN WANT 

Our rather noisy crowd was admitted to the apart¬ 
ment of Dellora and Bonita by a quiet, very efficient 
Japanese servant, Gazi, who seemed impassively 
never surprised at anything that took place. In¬ 
cluding our two hostesses, Juanita and Dolores, and 
another girl who “horned in” at the last moment, 
there were a round dozen of us. The seven men of 
the party were in various states of hilarity and, as 
can well be imagined, much took place. 

The apartment was a most attractive little place 
of three rooms, one of them a very large front room, 
on the second floor of an old house at the north end 
of Washington Square. It had evidently been 
rented furnished, but the interior decorating had 
been helped out by Bonita and Dellora with a great 
many quaint art objects from Mexico, including 
basket work, weaving, and some excellent ornaments 
of copper and bronze. 

However, the main business before the meeting 
was attended to with the aid of Gazi. It consisted 
in the production of innumerable bottles of bitter 
mescal and some pulque in a wretched state of 
preservation. 

As for me, it was a party after my own heart. 
There was a lot of loose conversation and I early 

152 


WHAT WOMEN WANT 153 

separated from Kennedy, with my ears tuned to 
scandal of any wave length. 

Over a tray set down by Gazi, I found Gitano 
and Kanakura, Gitano with one arm on the Jap’s 
shoulder, almost about his neck. Gitano was pledg¬ 
ing the unity of races and Kanakura was explaining 
about the ancient Ainus of Japan. 

The Ainus, as I knew, where aborigines who had 
been driven northward into the island of Yezo, and 
were thought by some to be near of kin to both 
Caucasians and Asiatics. From all I had heard they 
must be a dirty, hairy race, but rather inoffensive 
and peaceable unless driven to extremities. 

“You know also, prehistoric races of North 
America, of Mexico, came across by land from Asia 
and then spread south all over your continents,” 
concluded Kanakura, his black beady eyes glowing. 
“So we are kindred, Mexico and Japan—brothers!” 

Dolores had come up to me, listening to Kanakura 
and Gitano. Dolores never bothered her pretty 
head, any more than did her friend Juanita, about 
anything that concerned more than the adult popu¬ 
lation of the present generation. When she thought 
that the conversation had distracted attention from 
her own graces long enough, she broke in, “And I, 
Kanakura,” throwing an arm about him, “am a 
sister of you both! ” Leaning over she kissed Gitano. 
Gitano was, after all, a great catch, worth playing 
for. He accepted the kiss as a favor gratefully 
received. 

I could see that Kennedy, while apparently deeply 
engrossed for the time with anyone with whom he 
might be talking, was watching Dellora constantly. 
Watching Dellora to-night meant watching Wal- 


154 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


worth, for he was her shadow. I never saw a fellow 
more infatuated. I got a great deal out of watching 
Jermine’s chagrin, too. Walworth was trying to 
gratify Dellora’s least whim. 

There was a burst of laughter from Dellora’s 
corner. Everyone looked. Dellora had taken an 
old raincoat out of a box and a man’s old hat. 
Hastily donning them and pulling some hair down 
straight on her face, she was leaning over and imitat¬ 
ing a man hitting imaginary rocks with a pickax. 

“Oh, the copper—the copper—see!” She pulled 
off the hat and waved it in the air. “The world is 
mine!” 

Every tone of her voice was Dalrymple’s, every 
quaint awkward movement, even to his absent- 
mindedness. 

“She has made an accurate study of him,” Ken¬ 
nedy murmured to me, as I came over. “I wonder 
why?” 

“Where is the old man?” Gitano asked, looking 
around at the rest. “How is he? I no see him? 
Who knows?” 

He looked toward Jermine, who did not answer 
but shot a quick look at Dellora. Did I imagine it, 
or did Dellora really color? I turned to Craig to 
see if he had noticed. From his slight nod, I knew 
that he had. Did Gitano know of any reason why 
Dalrymple should not be present? 

“Please,” chimed in Bonita, “do not bore me talk¬ 
ing about Dal. I have other things . . . more in¬ 
teresting.” Hips moving gracefully she crossed the 
room and seated herself by Walworth, put her arm 
about his neck and pulled his face down, proceeding 
to light her cigarette from the one in his mouth. 


WHAT WOMEN WANT 155 

“Other things more interesting? What do you 
mean?” Dellora flashed up suddenly. 

“Oh, I hear you liked Bonita’s Dal on the trip up 
from Vera Cruz ... I like Dellora’s Walworth. He 
is very nice man . . . very.” Bonita sunned him 
with an ardent glance. 

Evidently Walworth did not think it worth while 
to do anything that might make a scene. He ac¬ 
cepted Bonita’s endearments quietly, but did not 
return them. 

Here was a source of trouble, I thought. With 
the two girls, the fight was on. Still, I could not 
figure Jermine and Dellora. Had she been doing it 
merely to bring Jermine to time with a new rival? 
Walworth appeared deeply smitten by Dellora. 

Kennedy must have felt it incumbent on some¬ 
one to change the subject. At any rate he crossed 
between Walworth and Jermine. As he did so he 
picked up a hammered copper cup or bowl, of un¬ 
doubted antiquity. 

“Copper must have been treated like stone when 
these early men first found it,” he remarked, holding 
the shallow bowl. “But finally the malleability of 
the metal must have caused them to shape it, in¬ 
stead of pecking it out. The pretty red color and 
the high polish they could give it must have de¬ 
lighted the barbarian eye. Maybe they practiced 
casting to some degree, but I’ve seen some wonderful 
results from their hammering, grinding, and anneal¬ 
ing, thin sheets of metal made by laborious hammer¬ 
ing, and the highest skill in sheet copper work 
exhibited in intricate repousse ” 

Noyes had taken the diversion as a chance to 
approach Bonita with a couple of glasses of mescal. 


158 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


He took her arm in what I thought was a rather 
proprietary manner and led her to a part of the room 
just near enough to me so that I could hear what 
they said. Mescal has no tendency to make people 
lower their voices, either. 

“What’s the matter to-night, Bonita? You seem 
rather free with your affection—first with this Mr. 
Kennedy—now with Walworth. I’ll not stand much 
more of it!” 

“You not stand? What will my Gilbert do?” she 
returned tantalizingly. “Sit?” 

“You know darn well what I’ll do! I’ve a mind 
to do it now,” he growled, “if you pay much more 
attention to Walworth.” 

Mescal had given Bonita confidence. She looked 
at him defiantly. Raising her hand to her hair, she 
took out a jeweled ornament, fingering it casually. I 
was horrified to see that it was really a tiny little 
jeweled dagger, like a stiletto. With nonchalant 
grace she put it back and smiled wistfully. “He is 
a wonder man . . . Mr. Walworth . . . one for 
whom some girls would risk their character!” I 
could see that I had been right. This was a source 
of trouble. 

“H’m,” sneered Noyes, but with not too much 
disrespect. “I see . . . dressed to kill!” 

“Oh—you may laugh!” There was a hard de¬ 
fiance in Bonita’s tone, as she left him, still holding 
the two glasses. 

“To me as an artist, copper has a great appeal,” 
remarked Jermine to Kennedy and Walworth. At 
least they were not on the subject of the ladies. 
“As a metal and as an alloy, its rose red, golden 
yellow, and bronze are both artistic and practical. 


WHAT WOMEN WANT 


157 


Then with other elements it produces blacks, blues, 
greens, browns that are mighty decorative. The 
brilliant blues and the beautiful greens of copper 
salts appeal to me as a painter. I’ve experimented 
with blues of two shades, greens, and intermediate 
shades—to say nothing of your old friend, Paris 
green, copper aceto-arsenite. There are a lot of 
people I might use that on—not as paint!” 

“Tut! Tut!” playfully warned Kennedy. 

“Oh, hang art! It’s electricity and such things 
I’m interested in.” Noyes had sidled over. “Wher¬ 
ever there’s electricity there’s copper. The nerves 
of the world are copper!” 

“The nerves of a woman—carry a shock, too!” 
Bonita almost hissed that into his ear as she passed. 

Gitano seemed to enjoy the flash of the make and 
break. It must have been in his nature, in his name 
Guerrero. He picked up a paper cutter fashioned 
from a brass rifle cartridge, a memento of more 
strenuous days. 

“A man cannot even be killed in an up-to-date 
manner without copper,” he exclaimed, as he and 
Kanakura joined us. 

War, revolution was evidently on his mind. It 
was a subject in which he was evidently versed. 

“Every part of a complete cartridge except the 
powder contain copper—primer cap, anvil, you call 
it, on which firing pin fall, to the bullet itself which 
have jacket of copper nickel, because steel wear out 
delicate rifling of gun barrel. Copper nickel not 
hard enough to damage rifling, yet keep the slug 
inside from deform. Down there, some time, we file 
it off. Then the enemy, he go—Bluh!” He mush¬ 
roomed his hands out to illustrate dum-dumming his 


158 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


opponents. “Cartridge case, shell—gun metal, too 
—all need copper. My friend, Baron von Gall, he 
say even Germany cannot get along without it; there 
is no ersatz , they call it, eh?” 

“It would be a great thing for America if Dalrym- 
ple should succeed.” I could not help thinking 
of Dalrymple’s own words as Daisy had repeated 
them. Walworth had used them almost precisely. 
He went on: “Not so much the mere discovery of 
copper alone—as what he know r s can be done for 
America with copper plentiful and within the reach 
of everybody. It is what I,” he corrected himself 
quickly, “we know can be done with it in peace— 
a new copper age!” 

Gitano stuck to his point. “Maybe in peace; 
but in war that red metal is more important than 
gold. Man cannot live without it. It is as good 
as a draft of men. The country that have it not 
is worse off than if it have not the men, the general 
staff.” 

“True enough,” agreed Kennedy. “Wars have 
been won in spite of military ignorance. But no 
scrap of any importance since the fashioning of the 
first copper battle-ax has occurred without the red 
metal fighting on both sides. You are right, Gitano. 
Copper, brass, and bronze, they are quite as neces¬ 
sary as iron, coal, tar, wool, wheat, gasoline.” 

“Si! Copper is in the service!” Gitano’s white 
teeth gleamed. 

As far as Gitano was concerned, I realized that he 
was a virtual exile. He had been on the losing side 
in the last revolution. If another was being fo¬ 
mented, he was interested in which side to go with; 
he wanted to be sure to be with the winners. In 


/ 



WHAT WOMEN WANT 


159 


other words, Gitano was going to copper his bet; no 
putting the money on the wrong horse this time. 

In another corner of the room there were plants 
blooming profusely. They were partly shielded by 
draperies. I had noticed them early and had been 
emptying my mescal which I could not drink into 
these pots. Otherwise I should have been emptying 
my stomach elsewhere. 

I was busy a few minutes later giving the plants 
a drink back of the curtain when Dellora and Kana- 
kura sat down on a divan in front of the drapery. 
Dellora had been leading Jermine a merry chase 
during the evening, making up to everybody else. 

The best thing for me to do was to keep still. I 
could not help but hear what was said, and I must 
confess that it w r as a time when I was not averse to 
being an eavesdropper. 

“I miss you, Dellora. The shop has no more big 
laughs from little girl.” Kanakura almost purred. 
“I wish you come back. I give you more beautiful 
copper and brass ornaments for your rooms. My 
customers, they ask for you, too. Ornaments are 
beautiful . . 

Dellora had been lying back on the divan, a vision 
of loveliness, her face flushed with the mescal. Her 
eyes were half closed speculatively. I think the Jap 
thought it was a languishing love glance. He leaned 
over and took her hand. 

Absent-mindedly Dellora brushed his hand away. 
She sat up quickly. “You heard them talking over 
there? Kanakura, what would you do if you owned 
the biggest copper mine in all the world?” 

“I do?” With eyes closed, revealing only narrow 
slits, the Jap dreamed of power. “In Japan, the cop- 


160 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

per, the veins of the ore, are seventy to eighty feet— 
but of poor quality—two per cent, eight per 
cent. . . . Why, once we had even to limit the ex¬ 
port of it. I do? I go home. Make Japan the 
greatest nation on earth. I would be next to the 
Emperor!” 

“Kanakura, I hear that you have booked passage 
for Yokohama. When do you start?” Dellora sud¬ 
denly shot it at him. 

“Yes? And when are you and Walworth going to 
start build big house? He show me plans of house; 
I see him with you all time to-night. I cannot help 
see to-night he build it for you? A lot of copper 
it take—for the house—for the money, copper pen¬ 
nies—thousands and thousands of them to pay. 
Where come?” 

Dellora laughed musically. “You are jealous, 
Kana,” she tapped his eyes. “You see too much— 
that is not so!” 

I wondered at Gitano and Kanakura, however. 
Would it be that the money for this revolution was 
coming from Japan? I knew the canny Kanakura 
well enough to know that he was not going to buy 
a pig in a poke, either. He would be on top. 

It was getting late. All the evening I had been 
dodging Juanita and her “mescal mash.” Now, to 
my great relief, I saw that Gitano had stolen my 
girl. I was glad of it. Of the vices, I have learned 
that John Barleycorn you can take and he will leave 
you alone. But Juanita? Never! 

As for Dellora, I began to think that she w r as one 
who was not going to sell her heart cheaply. She, 
too, wanted to know. In fact, all bets in the 





WHAT WOMEN WANT 161 

“gangue” of fortune hunters had to be copper- 
riveted. 

“Come up—to-morrow,” I heard her whisper, as 
we were leaving, to Jermine. “I’ll be alone.” 

Whatever might have been his suspicions twelve 
hours ago, that sent Jermine away in a flutter. He 
even forgot to wait for us. 

“Can you figure a motive?” I asked Kennedy, as 
he turned into Fifth Avenue, now deserted, and we 
walked up waiting for either taxi or bus, letting the 
early morning air clear the mescal out of our brains. 

“Motives?” he repeated. “Plenty. The Mex— 
graft. The Jap—always preparing for war. The 
promoter—a chance to profiteer. The mining 
engineer—a fortune.” 

“But the girls?” 

“Ah!” 

“Blackmail?” 

“Possibly. What has it been in the other cases? 
What do women want?” 

“In the Cavendish case, with Doris it was 
beauty-” 

“But in the Garland case?” 

“It was money, a fortune. There is money here.” 

“How about the Penfield case—Mattie McLean?” 

“Passion,” I exclaimed. “Surely, Bonita—Hang 
it! There's beauty, money, passion, in all sorts of 
cases. . . . What do women want?” 

Kennedy inflated his chest with the damp air. 
“Power! They want to rule.” 

We walked a full block as I turned it over in my 
mind. “You have read ‘The Wife of Bath'? 
Chaucer knew, hundreds of years ago. Not beauty, 
not fortune—to rule! And they haven’t changed.” 





162 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


He despaired of any other conveyance than the sub¬ 
way and we turned in. “If either of those girls had 
this secret, she would rule the man she chose—all 
the men—no, the world! . . . Should she?” 

Then I realized that Kennedy was thinking not 
alone of the poor, staring, helpless creature down 
in the locked bedroom of Jermine. In an old house 
on Sutton Place was a little girl, just entering the 
sub-debutante age. What of her rights? 



IV 


THE WEED OF MADNESS 

Early the following morning, however, almost be¬ 
fore Craig was well into some test that he was eager 
to make, Jermine was at the laboratory. 

“How do you feel this morning?” asked Craig, 
looking up from his work over the tubes and jars 
and bottles already clustered in front of him. 

“Just a bit of a head. How about you?” 

“No one invited me to come up to see her—alone,” 
returned Kennedy, without a smile. 

“All right. Kid me about my love affair. . . . 
Oh, I suppose I came out all right . . . but . . . 
it’s hell to be full of suspicion. What did you think 
of her?” 

“I thought she was a very beautiful girl.” Ken¬ 
nedy was enthusiastically non-committal. 

“Oh, all right. You can’t make me mad, that 
way. But, I mean, what do you think . . . my 
suspicions . . .” 

“I think she knows a great deal more about cop¬ 
per and has a great deal better idea of what it’s 
worth than a lot of the w T ise ones up there—includ¬ 
ing yourself. Now, don’t bother me. Walter, take 
him over to the Physiological Lab. and borrow a 
cat for me!” 

I had long since ceased to ask questions over 
Craig’s strange requests. I knew that he wanted a 

103 



164 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

half hour alone, and that at the same time we should 
be serving him best by executing his rather strange 
request. 

“Here’s your cat!” I exclaimed when we returned. 
“Now, I took Jermine off your hands for thirty 
minutes; answer some of his questions yourself; 
take him off mine.” 

“I thought a cat would be better to try my test 
on than either of you,” he retorted, as he took the 
feline from the basket and held her in his arms, 
smoothing her fur gently to quiet the feelings I had 
severely ruffled in my carrying. “Although, speak¬ 
ing about cats, we might have made a martyr to 
science of some of those we saw last {night, eh?” 

With a dropper he sucked up a bit of some liquid 
that was odorless and colorless in a test tube. Then 
he let a small drop fall into the eye of the cat. The 
cat blinked a moment and Craig let her loose. 

“It won’t hurt her, and it may help us.” 

“What is that?” 

“Something I’ve isolated from those cigarette 
stubs I picked up yesterday in the tray near 
Dalrymple.” 

He turned back to his table and picked up the 
test tube from which he poured out a few drops. 
Then he treated it with a few more drops of strong 
nitric acid, evaporating it to dryness by gentle heat. 
The residue seemed colorless or slightly yellow. 

“Now, Walter, touch that with a drop of this 
alcoholic solution of potassium hydrate.” 

I did as he directed, not knowing whether to ex¬ 
pect an explosion or a vile odor. Instead, I saw the 
thing develop a deep purple color. Rapidly it 
changed to violet, then to dark red and finally dis- 


THE WEED OF MADNESS 165 

appeared. It was one of the most beautiful changes 
of test colors that I had ever seen. 

“That’s characteristic,” anticipated Kennedy to 
our questions. “It responds to a very small quan¬ 
tity—one fifty-thousandth of a grain. It’s Vitali’s 
test for atropine and-” 

“Atropine in the cigarettes?” I jumped to the 
conclusion. 

“No, one of its isomers.” 

“Oh,” I responded. But Jermine had no ignor¬ 
ance to conceal. “What’s an isomer?” he asked 

frankly. 

“An isomer of atropine is something, some other 
alkaloid, having exactly the same chemical composi¬ 
tion, very similar in chemical properties and 
physiological effect. Atropine is matched by another 
group composed of hyoscine, hyoscyamus, hyoscya- 
mine, from henbane, and stramonium, or rather 
datura stramonium. No other alkaloid gives an 
effect that can be mistaken for these. The others 
give only a brownish color when you try Vitali’s test. 
Therefore it is of great value. Catch that cat. You 
won’t have any trouble. She acts as if she had the 
blind staggers or something.” 

It was true. And as Kennedy took the cat he 
held her head around so that we could see the eyes. 
One eye seemed to be enlarged, even under the glare 
of the light, shining forth, as it were, like the pro¬ 
verbial cat’s eye under a bed. 

“What does it mean?” exclaimed the artistic 
Jermine. “Dal’s eyes! Is it the evil eye?” 

“Not exactly. These are all what are known as 
mydriatic alkaloids—from their effect on the eyes. 
You can try it on your own eyes, if you choose.” 



166 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“No thanks; I have a regular oculist!” countered 
Jermine. 

“Which it is?” I asked. “Belladonna?” 

“No. Stramonium, in this case. There’s a dif¬ 
ference in the impurities that are present, often, 
but that is what I would say we have in this in¬ 
stance—what is known in Central America and 
Mexico as the Weed of Madness.” 

“That’s a good name!” returned Jermine, 
impressed. 

“It’s something similar in this case to the Central 
American marijuana, the Mexican toloache, and the 
Hindu datura, of which you must have heard.” 

I had heard of these weird drugs, but they had al¬ 
ways seemed to be so far away and to belong to 
another atmosphere. Yet, I reflected, there was 
nothing to prevent their appearance in our cosmo¬ 
politan city, especially in a case like this. 

“You know the Jimson weed—the Jamestown 
weed, as it is so often called?” continued Kennedy. 
“It grows almost everywhere in the world, but it 
thrives in the tropics.” 

“I’ve seen it in lots and fields,” replied Jermine, 
“but I never thought it was of much importance.” 

“Well, all the poisons that I mentioned are re¬ 
lated to it, in some way. The Jimson weed, down 
in Latin America, has large white flowers which ex¬ 
hale a faint, repulsive odor. It is a harmless enough 
looking plant, with a thick tangle of leaves, coarse 
and green, and trumpet-shaped flowers. But to any¬ 
one who knows its properties it is quite too danger¬ 
ously convenient for safety. Well, those cigarettes, 
or at least some of them, have been doped with a 
species of this weed of madness.” 


THE WEED OF MADNESS 167 

“Why, it acts on human beings like the loco weed 
on animals,” interposed Jermine. 

“Very much. It is known in all the states border¬ 
ing on the Rio Grande and in Mexico. If properly 
prepared, it will make an ordinarily peaceful citizen 
run amuck. His eyes begin to dilate and bulge. 
One of the sensations is as if flying, they say, fol¬ 
lowed by a dreamless sleep. Others lie in a stupor 
of dreams, a drug Elysium. But the end is epilepsy 
and insanity. 

“It just simply depends on how much there is in 
a cigarette. In one case I know a man went to a 
fingerprint expert and offered him a cigarette. The 
expert fell into the stupor and the fellow stole his 
own fingerprints from the records. There can be 
enough in a cigarette even to kill. Of all the 
dangers to be met with in superstitious countries, 
these mydriatic alkaloids are the worst. They offer 
a chance for crimes of the most fiendish nature, 
worse than with the gun or the dagger. They are 
worse because there is so little likelihood of detec¬ 
tion. That crime is the production of insanity 
itself!” 

It was a horrible and repulsive idea, and now I 
recalled something I had read. I fumbled in the 
pile of old papers on my desk until I fished out 
yesterday’s Star. “Here’s a strange thing,” I ex¬ 
claimed, pointing to an article under the head, 
“Balk Plot to Smuggle New Drug.” 

“Analysis by government chemists of a weed found 
secreted under the floor of a room on the liner Arroyo to¬ 
day confirmed the suspicions of customs agents that an 
attempt had been made to smuggle in a sinister Central 
American drug new to this country. 


168 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“The drug is marijuana, said by experts to fasten its grip 
upon the novice with far greater speed than morphine, 
cocaine, heroin, or opium, and to be more destructive in its 
effects. 

“The marijuana was found while the customs officers were 
examining the Arroyo at Pier No. 15, East River. Some¬ 
thing about the flooring in one of the linen rooms attracted 
the attention of a customs man, who had the floor ripped up. 
Below he found several bunches of what seemed to be 
withered weeds, wrapped in Costa Rican newspapers of 
recent date. 

“The deputy surveyor decided that the circumstances were 
so peculiar that a chemical analysis should be made. The 
chemists say that marijuana is so powerful that a small bit 
of leaf or twig rolled into a cigarette has such a ‘kick’ that 
the traffickers in drugs have no difficulty in getting one dollar 
for such a cigarette. 

“In Costa Rica, where the plant grows, it is considered 
so harmful that mere possession of the drug entails a prison 
sentence.” 

“The Arroyo,” exclaimed Jermine as I finished 
reading. “That was the ship we came on!” 

“But,” I observed, “the stuff was seized.” 

“All of it?” he asked. “That Costa Rican stuff 
might have been a blind to cover Vera Cruz.” 

“Is that the only way a bit of it could have got 
up here?” asked Kennedy quietly. 

“N-no,” replied Jermine. Then he leaped up and 
grabbed our telephone, calling his own number. 

There was no answer for some minutes. Jermine 
jiggled the hook and told central to keep on ringing. 

“What? Who's this? Pat? The janitor?” Jer- 
mine’s face wore a startled look. “What, Pat? Mr. 
Radway, bound, on the floor? Say, Pat, look in 
my bedroom. Is there anyone else there? No? Put 
Mr. Radway on—loosen him!” 


THE WEED OF MADNESS 169 

Jermine faced us blankly. His own words had 
told the story. 

“The buzzer sounded,” called back Radway. “I 
answered the door. I remembered your orders, sir, 
not to admit anyone. I did not. I had my hand 
on the knob. There was a woman in a veil—and a 
Jap. . . . That’s the last I remember. I was out! 
They got me—some drug—ethyl chloride, maybe. 
And when I came to, Dalrymple was gone!” 

“Maybe it was Dellora and Kanakura,” I 
hazarded. 

“Or Gazi and Bonita,” grasped Jermine at a 
straw. “He couldn’t describe them, he said. It 
was done so quickly.” 

“Or anybody!” said Craig. “You’re just guess¬ 
ing, now.” 

He moved over toward his never failing cabinet 
of -new apparatus, and took out what looked like 
a small putty blower and a small kit of hand tools. 

“What were you telling me, Walter, about watch¬ 
ing that curio shop of Kanakura’s during the 
conference?” 

“That I struck up an acquaintance with the shop¬ 
keeper next door, could watch everyone who went 
out and came in. But I couldn’t look around a 
corner and see what was going on on the other 
side of a wall.” 

“Well, I’m going to spy on Kanakura’s shop.” 

“So,” I remarked, as we started out of the door, 
“Dalrymple’s gone—disappeared! ” 

“And that key—with him!” exclaimed Jermine. 



v 

THE CURIO SHOP 


As we left the laboratory Kennedy gave over to 
me a fairly heavy black box with which I w r as 
familiar and Jermine and I took turns carrying it. 

With a handful of nickels Craig dived into a tele¬ 
phone pay booth and was busy for several minutes. 

“It just occurred to me to start something/’ he 
chuckled as he rejoined us and we hurried on our 
way, “something that will bring them all down to 
Kanakura’s— pronto!” 

Kanakura’s was one of those little half shops. 
That is to say, what had formerly been a rather wide 
shop had been divided in half by a heavy partition 
of lathe and plaster and two, shops had blossomed 
where there had been only one before. The other 
half was known as the “Sweetie Shop,” doing a busi¬ 
ness in the front part most of the day in chocolates 
and bonbons and strange and wonderfully con¬ 
cocted drinks, while in the rear it had been fitted 
as a tea room. 

It was not eleven o’clock yet and the tea-room 
patrons were not due for some time. I renewed my 
acquaintance with the proprietor and we were sure 
of having the tea room to ourselves perhaps for half 
an hour. 

Kennedy set to work immediately, opening the 
black box which, I knew, contained his dictagraph. 

170 


THE CURIO SHOP 


171 


We had used the various forms of microphone veiy 
often in our work, but the thing was new and quite 
interesting to Jermine, especially Craig’s arrange¬ 
ment so that three or four might listen in at once. 

Craig placed the little black disc transmitter flat 
up against the plaster and lath partition, and ad¬ 
justed his resistance. It was a method that some¬ 
times worked on some partitions and saved a great 
deal of trouble, when the vibrations of sound could 
be caught. 

Beyond the fact that Kanakura had just come in, 
there seemed to be nothing going on beyond usual 
routine on the other side of the partition. 

Kennedy had taken out a small brace and bit from 
the tool kit and laid out the “putty-blower” tube for 
use, w T hen we were interrupted by Radway whom 
he had called up from Jermine’s studio. 

Radway was bursting with news. He had made 
inquiries as Craig directed and a kid playing across 
the street from the studio building had told of a 
private ambulance that had driven up at what must 
have been the same time that the woman and the 
Jap entered the studio. There were two men in it, 
one in a coat that might have been a uniform. The 
men had later brought out another man in what, 
according to the kid’s explanation, must have been 
a strait-jacket. Then the private ambulance had 
started off suddenly, leaving the woman and the 
Jap on the sidewalk. The woman had started to 
run after the ambulance, but there was not a chance 
for her to overtake it. 

A moment’s questioning of Radway himself 
brought out that his recollection of the woman was 
mostly of suit coat and bonnet and neck-piece that 


172 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


covered most of her face. Kennedy glanced over 
at me significantly as Radway did the best he could. 
By the description it was Dellora as she had been 
attired when she had tried to pick Dalrymple’s lock 
the night before! 

He picked up the dictagraph, listened, and smiled. 
“That’s Walworth, just came in. He thinks Kana- 
kura called him. They can’t make it out!” 

Working rapidly and silently with the brace and 
bit, he bored until he had a little hole perhaps a 
trifle larger than a quarter of an inch in diameter 
through the partition. Then he inserted the “putty- 
blower” tube in it, just so that it could not have 
protruded noticeably on the other side. 

“Have a look,” he nodded, taking his eye away 
from an eye piece at our end. “This is my deteeta- 
scope—with a ‘fish-eye’ lens, that looks through an 
angle of about one hundred and eighty degrees. It 
overcomes the usual trouble with keyhole evidence. 
You know, you look through a peep-hole and you 
see only what is at a small diverging angle in front 
of you. Now, Radway, look. Is that the Jap?” 

Radway bent down. “No,” he negatived. 
“Slighter.” 

“Gazi, then, probably.” 

Between the dictagraph and the detectascope we 
saw and heard in the next shop almost as if we had 
been there. 

Kanakura’s curio shop was a treasure trove. 
There was a wealth of articles in beautiful cloisonne 
enamel, in mother of pearl, lacquer, and champleve. 
There were beautiful little koros, or incense burners, 
vases and teapots, enamels incrusted, translucent, 


THE CURIO SHOP 173 

and painted, work of the famous Namikawa of 
Kyoto and Namikawa of Tokyo. 

Satsuma vases, splendid and rare examples of the 
potter’s art, must have represented a small fortune. 
Also there were gorgeously embroidered screens 
depicting all sorts of brilliant scenes, among them, 
of course, the sacred Fujiyama rising in stately 
distance. 

Walworth was admiring some bronzes. He 
had paused before one, a square metal fire screen of 
odd design, with the title on the card, “Japan Gazing 
at the World.” 

It represented Japan as an eagle with beak and 
talons of burnished gold, resting on a rocky island 
about which great waves dashed. The bird had an 
air of dignity and conscious pride in its strength, as 
it looked out at the world, a globe revolving in space. 

“Is there anything significant in that?” asked 
Walworth. “I see the continents of North and 
South America prominently in view.” 

“Ah, I suppose the artist intended by that to in¬ 
dicate Japan’s friendliness for America and 
Americas’ greatness! ” 

Kanakura was inscrutable. It seemed as if he 
were watching Walworth’s every move, yet it was 
done with a polite cordiality at which Walworth 
could not take offense. 

Behind some bronzes of the Japanese Hercules 
destroying the demons and figures of other mythical 
heroes was a large alcove or tokonoma, decorated 
with peacock, stork, and crane panels. Carvings 
and lacquer added to the beauty of it. A miniature 
chrysanthemum garden heightened the illusion. 
Carved hinoki wood framed the panels and the roof 


174 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

was supported by columns in the old Japanese 
style. It was in this compromise between the simple 
and the polychromatic that Kanakura held forth. 
The dark woods, the lanterns, the floor tiles of dark 
red, and the cushions of rich gold and yellow gave it 
the fascination of the Orient. 

Walworth had sat down in a high-backed, teak 
wood chair. 

“Dellora herself!” whispered Kennedy. 

Dellora entered Kanakura’s shop w T ith a light, 
quick step. She had a rich voice and it was a 
pleasure to hear her greeting. 

“Feeling fine after last night, Kanakura?” she 
queried, with a vivid smile displaying her small 
white teeth. 

“Feeling fine as you look to me!” returned the 
wily Jap. “Do you see who is here?” he added 
quickly, as if not taking any chance of a remark 
slipping out and being overheard, unaware. 

Dellora bent over the back of the high teak wood 
chair and lightly tapped Walworth on the head. 
“Why, Allan, I didn't expect to see you. I’m awfully 
glad!” 

Kanakura was not going to allow any tete-a-tete 
in his own shop. If anyone advanced to a higher 
plane in Dellora’s affections, he felt that he should 
be that one in such surroundings. 

There was no need for Kanakura to scheme. 
Kennedy might well smile. From the street en¬ 
trance came a bustling little woman, brushing past 
everybody. Bonita was surprised at seeing so many 
present. Also a flash of surprise and anger seemed 
to pass over Dellora’s face as she looked at Bonita. 

“I didn’t expect to see anyone but Wally and 


THE CURIO SHOP 175 

Kanakura. What an audience we have!” It was 
easy to get the aggrieved tone in Bonita’s voice. 

“If I’m the audience, Bonita, I admit it’s a good 
show! How w r ell you look in my gown! What’s 
the matter? Is Dal’s alimony getting low?” Dellora 
laughed provokingly. 

“No, Dal’s money is not getting low—nor mine 
either! Why do you crow T ? Have you made a kill¬ 
ing, also? Who this time? Shall I ask Jeff Jermine 
what he think of Wally’s attentions, eh?” 

“The men do not bother me—just now,” colored 
Dellora. “I leave that to you! But I want to know 
about my gown. Wliy are you wearing it? It is a 
pretty red—and the hat!” Dellora was chilling. 

I looked through the detectascope. It was the 
same gown and hat that Dellora had worn when we 
saw her trying to get into Dalrymple’s apartment by 
picking the lock. What did it mean? Craig turned 
to Radway. With his finger pointing and a nod he 
indicated that it was Bonita he had seen, not Dellora. 

“Wear it? For reasons of my own!” Bonita 
snapped her fingers in Dellora’s face. “Kana, give 
me drink of sake! What is the matter with people 
in the morning? They are so—so damn hard to get 
along with. Don’t you think, Wally? Now he is 
a dear!” The last was to Kanakura as she saw him 
getting the glasses. “I am going to sit on this tabo- 
ret—near you—Wally.” 

She looked defiantly at Dellora as she spoke so 
familiarly to Walworth and chuckled with glee. 

An attendant poured out the rice brandy. Taking 
his own cup quietly, with a long piece of carved 
wood, he dipped in the sake and shook a few drops 



176 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


on the floor to the four quarters, according to old 
ceremonial custom. 

I could see that Jermine, next me, was biting his 
lips and clenching his free hand as he listened in on 
the dictagraph on Walworth, his rival. 

More quick steps were heard. “Good heavens, 
who is it this time?” Dellora laughed and leaned 
forward. 

All eyes sought to see. Gitano seemed as sur¬ 
prised as they. 

“Is it a—a junta?” he exclaimed, looking about, 
then to Kanakura, as Kennedy on our side smiled 
knowingly, “I thought you left message you want 
speak to me alone about my country?” 

Kanakura shook his head. Then he said reflec¬ 
tively, “I have not call message. You must make 
big mistake. But since you are here—have some 
sake.” 

Gitano was ever ready for a drink. Mescal or 
sake, either would have settled him for a minute. 


VI 

THE HELL CAT 


“Of all the confounded nervy pieces of business!” 

Noyes was standing in the dim light of the toko- 
noma, emitting a blue streak. 

“I am called up on the telephone—and I am told 
that Bonita is having a devil of a party with Wal¬ 
worth up here at Kanakura’s. Then when I get 
here I find a crowd, all sitting around as if they were 
at a wake—or a fight! Who in the devil called me 
up? Did you, Dellora?” 

Noyes was angry. He seemed to feel as though a 
practical joker had made a fool of him. Kennedy 
smiled quietly. 

Dellora leaned back and laughed outright. “Ask 
Bonita, Gilbert. Maybe she knows!” Dellora 
threw a rather spiteful glance in Bonita’s direction. 

“It’s very strange,” retorted Bonita. “I was called 
up by a voice that sounded very much like Mr. Wal¬ 
worth’s and asked to meet him here.” 

“Yes, and you came here hot-foot!” Noyes 
shouted. “You women are all alike!” 

Dellora laughed again. It was more than Bonita 
could stand. “You confound mimic!” she hissed. 
“I belief you have been up to your tricks again!” 

Noyes was in no mood to have his own private 
scrap with Bonita clouded by another with Dellora. 

177 




178 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“Never mind, Dellora,” he cried. “Bonita—I am 
sore! You-” 

“You? Sore? Who have hit?” 

“You know very well what I mean! You didn’t 
make good. You don’t play fair! I went up to 
your apartment. You-” 

“But my servant, Gazi, have desert! He have run 
away!” 

“Gazi—gone?” repeated Dellora, 

“Your Jap, run away?” exclaimed Noyes incredu¬ 
lously. “The devil you say!” 

“Yes!” Bonita, roused, had all the fire of her 
race. “I belief you did thing yourself —Meestair 
Noyes! So!” I felt that if she had been a wild 
cat she would have leaped at his face. As it was 
she turned and almost flung herself in the arms of 
Walworth. 

This was a thing calculated, from the spiteful con¬ 
versation of the night before, to set Noyes crazy. As 
Bonita’s soft hand moved caressingly over Wal¬ 
worth’s coat, Noyes strode over and pulled her hand 
from Walworth angrily. 

Before he knew it Bonita had sw T ung her hand 
around and Noyes received a stinging blow in the 
face. Noyes saw red. In his rage he forgot every¬ 
thing. 

“You’re a fine one—you—damned bigamist!” 

“Sh! Sh!” Bonita suddenly pleaded. “No! 
No! Don’t!” 

Noyes saw his handkerchief covered with blood 
from his still stinging nose. The indignity had set 
him afire. 

“Mrs. Nolan!” He paused. “Ladies and gentle¬ 
men, let me make you acquainted with Mrs. Nolan. 




THE HELL CAT 


179 


She has a T. B. husband down in the tableland of 
Mexico—wondering who’s pressing her now! She 
was never old Dalrymple’s wife—legally. She faked 
him—to get his money. Nolan, the poor prospector, 
who went down there as a lunger, was her husband, 
all the time!” 

For the moment there was consternation. Noyes 
had spilled the beans. There was a tuberculous 
husband down there, in the mountains. Noyes had 
known it. Bonita knew he knew it. It was one 
thing, however, for him to know it; quite another to 
proclaim it openly, most of all here and now. 

Bonita drew herself up, looked about with eyes 
that flashed fire. I half expected her to reach into 
her hair again and seize that little dagger ornament 
with which I had seen her toy last night. Either she 
did not have it, or she was calm enough to realize 
that with so many others present it would do no 
good. 

If she had looked daggers at the break with 
Dellora, this was a veritable emotional explosion. 

“You? You tell on me? You?” She laughed 
a hard, hysterical laugh. “I belief someone—you— 
bribe my servant, Gazi! Dalrymple! Pouf! 
Drug—dope! I tell the world! There are place— 
a farm—out in country—for dope fiends. There! 
I have said enough!” She wound up with a shrill 
falsetto. 

As for Noyes, he laughed. Instead of replying, 
he turned away with all the scorn that a man can 
assume when he is holding a handkerchief to a 
bleeding nose. 

Kanakura shot a quick glance and caught the eye 





180 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

of Gitano. They exchanged a nod of mutual under¬ 
standing. 

“I know the place she means/’ muttered Kennedy. 
“East Farm, the dope sanitarium, up in Westchester. 
Let’s go. That gang is broken up. Do you see? 
Not a word from any of them. Now, it’s everybody 
for himself—and the devil take the hindmost! 
We’re a lap ahead in the race. Let’s hold it.” 

Following the trail of Bonita’s spilled beans, it 
was less than an hour when we arrived at the famous 
drug farm for addicts just over the city line. 

Piece by piece, like a mosaic, Kennedy had fitted 
the fragments together to complete the picture—-the 
private ambulance, the strait-jacket, the virtual kid¬ 
napping. 

“Yes,” responded the superintendent at East 
Farm, “there is just such a man as you describe, 
committed early this morning.” 

Kennedy shot a glance at me. Dalrymple was 
found! 

“May I see a copy of the papers committing him?” 

The superintendent, a friend of Dr. Leslie who had 
worked with us on so many cases, fumbled in a safe 
until he found them. I looked over Kennedy’s 
shoulder and to my astoundment read the signatures 
at the bottom: 

Craig Kennedy. 

Jeff Jermine. 

“Forged!” I exclaimed. 

“By whom?” demanded Jermine. 

Kennedy undertook a swift questioning of the 
superintendent, who was a man with a camera eye 
for faces. 

“By Jove, the man was Walworth!” exclaimed 



THE HELL CAT 


181 

Craig. “But this signature of Mr. Jermine’s name 
is in the handwriting of a woman. I could swear 
that it is.” 

The superintendent nodded. In a few swift words 
he described her. 

“Dellora-—herself!” Jermine fairly gasped. 

“Can he be cured?” I inquired, my mind racing 
ahead on an important tangent. 

Before the superintendent could reply, Craig 
turned. “Yes. It is not drug addiction; it is poi¬ 
soning—poisoning by one of the mydriatic alkaloids, 
like atropine. There is a drug that is definitely 
antagonistic to the mydriatic alkaloids. It is so 
antagonistic that it is actually an antidote. Physo- 
stigmine. Have your chemist come here. Of 
course, you have had no time—haven’t the informa¬ 
tion or means to diagnose his trouble. I have. 
May I see him?” 

We found Dalrymple, dazed, w T eak, in a receiving 
ward, where-he was not only under observation but 
could do himself no harm. 

Kennedy reached into his pocket where had been 
his key ring. Involuntarily Dalrymple’s arm shot 
out with a blow. Craig had been expecting it and 
dodged. But as he jumped back he had to let loose 
the key ring on its chain. 

Dalrymple recovered himself and sat, rocking back 
and forth, mournfully, on the edge of the cot. 
Slowly in one hand he drew back the key ring on the 
chain until it rested under his unseeing eyes. He 
moved his fingers over the keys, and uttered a groan 
as he continued to rock ceaselessly. 

“The brass key has been stolen!” exclaimed Craig, 
pointing. 



182 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Jermine looked at the frightful figure, now, of his 
friend. “Yes . . . but what does it open?” 

He knew as well as we that it was some secret of 
tremendous value. It was gone! 

Without a word Kennedy strode out into the hall 
where there was a telephone. I heard him give a 
number he had looked up and I knew that it must be 
the home on Sutton Place of Daisy Dalrymple. 

“Thanks. Now measure out that physostigmine, 
as directed. There.” Kennedy w^as calm anima¬ 
tion as he returned with the apothecary. Then to 
the superintendent he added, “He will be better, as 
soon as it begins to work. We have with us one of 
the best nurses of Dr. Hamilton. You can trust 
him, Radway; you have heard of him?” 

Craig turned in answer to Jermine’s question. 

“That little niece of yours, Daisy, is a winner! She 
has given me an idea. I called her, quizzed her, told 
her everything that might set her mind to work. In 
the cellar of that house on Sutton Place is a vault— 
with a bronze door. The brass key must fit it!” 

The superintendent looked up with a certain re¬ 
spect to Kennedy, as Dalrymple already seemed to 
move more easily. 

“I am taking him to his daughter’s, with his 
nurse,” bustled Craig. “I prefer the ambulance— 
for speed—we must hurry!” 


YII 

THE COPPER ROOM 


We drove up to Sutton Place. It was on a bluff 
over the East River, where old society once lived, to 
which new society was coming back. 

The house of Ellen Burns and her husband, John 
Sterling, was one of those old four story and base¬ 
ment houses that had been remodeled with an Eng¬ 
lish basement. All the living rooms had formerly 
faced the street. Now the living rooms were in the 
rear, away from the noise of people and traffic. 

Back of the remodeled houses were beautiful gar¬ 
dens, a small garden for each house, all opening into 
a larger and sunken Italian garden. Stone benches, 
sun dials, bird baths, urns, and fountains, with the 
climbing plants and evergreens, made one forget the 
city. If one had to live in the city, it was ideal. 

As the East Farms ambulance pulled up, we ran 
across John Sterling himself, just about to enter. 
Ellen had telephoned his office and he had hurried 
home. 

Kennedy sized up the place with manifest 
approval. 

“Yes, you see Mr. Dalrymple was a bug on 
copper,” nodded Sterling. “When w r e rebuilt the 
place, of course the old roof had to come off. He 
insisted on shingling it w T ith copper. And the new 
plumbing is all brass pipes. Everything was copper 

183 


184 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


and brass with him. . . . Well, maybe it cost a little 
more, but, as he said, it was there for generations. 
Why when this house is scrapped, it’ll be worth its 
weight in copper! Everything’s been done not for 
my lifetime, but as an investment; for half a dozen 
lifetimes to come!” 

Kennedy whispered hastily aside to Sterling and, 
instead of entering the house, Sterling beckoned a 
taxi which had just discharged a fare down the street 
and now had up the “Vacant” sign. 

A butler admitted us and Craig asked to see Ellen 
first. We had left Dalrymple in the ambulance 
until Craig could make arrangements with Ellen to 
get him in the house and make him comfortable be¬ 
fore Daisy saw him. 

“Miss Daisy is in the drawing-room,” bowed the 
butler, indicating the rear. “A lady came a few 
minutes ago to see her. Will you be so kind as to 
wait in this little reception room?” 

Sliding doors separated the two rooms. 

“Stop! Leave me alone! Oh, tell me, what has 
happened to my father!” We heard Daisy give a 
frightened cry. 

“You had better, young lady! I’ll—” We 
could hear Bonita threatening the child. 

Kennedy flung open the sliding doors, one with 
each hand, and stepped through. Bonita wilted, 
then instantly regained her sang-froid, staring boldly, 
refusing to tell what she had come for. Daisy ran 
to Kennedy with arms open in the excitement of the 
moment. 

“Mr. Kennedy! My father—where is he? Is he 
dead? Did they take him away?” Daisy clasped 
and unclasped her hands in anxiety. 


THE COPPER ROOM 


185 


“He is in this house, Daisy! He is getting better 
very quickly. Someone gave him a drug that made 
him—terribly ill. But we know what will cure it. 
He has had the cure, and ought to be much better in 
a few minutes, now.” 

The quality of passing quickly from the extreme 
of sadness to the extreme of joy is beautiful to watch 
in children. Just a second and tears and fears are 
gone; only happiness is visible. It is the resiliency 
that makes youth priceless—at any age. Daisy was 
dancing with glee. “My Daddy, here with me? Oh, 
good! good! I'm so glad!” She took Kennedy's 
hands and kissed him. 

Suddenly remembering, she turned. “Mr. Ken¬ 
nedy! That woman was trying to make me go to 
Daddy's safe. She told me if I didn't, my Daddy'd 
never come back to me. She says she is my step¬ 
mother, that I must mind her—but I won’t!” 

“It is well you didn't, Daisy. Ah! Another 
caller!” 

We had heard the bell ringing violently. Bonita 
glanced out of the corner of her eyes, sidewise. A 
vindictive smile passed over her face when she heard 
the voice of Noyes. Kennedy had already told the 
butler to let everybody come in. Noyes’s excuse 
was slim. “He wanted to see Mr. Dalrymple’s little 
girl; said he was a great friend of her father,” an¬ 
nounced the butler. A Mona Lisa smile from 
Bonita was his only recognition from her. Kennedy 
motioned him to be seated. There was nothing else 
to do. 

Daisy gave a nervous little laugh. The bell was 
ringing again. This time Kennedy himself strode 
to the door ahead of the butler. As he flung it open 


186 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


he did so in such a way that he was hidden com¬ 
pletely behind the door. Kanakura and Gitano 
walked in. Kennedy slammed the door with a bang 
that made the old timbers in the house rattle, and 
stood with his back to it. 

“Right in the drawing-room, gentlemen! Some 
more of your friends are in there. Just make your¬ 
selves at home!” 

Kanakura’s beady eyes flashed. But he was 
silent. Gitano never lost his volubility. “Why! 
It ees Bonita! Yess, I am always at home to talk 
to a pretty lady!” 

Kennedy had drawn Daisy aside into the little 
reception room. “Daisy,” he whispered impres¬ 
sively, “your father had a brass key on his key ring 
which he guarded most carefully. When he was car¬ 
ried off from your Uncle Jeff’s, the key disappeared. 
We don’t know who has it—and we don’t know what 
it unlocks—unless it is that bronze door you told me 
of, in the cellar vault.” Craig looked at the child, to 
see whether what he had told her might suggest 
something. 

A flash of inspiration seemed to light up her face. 
“I am sure now is the time to do it! Daddy is sick. 
His key is gone. And you want to help him!” 

“Do you know something, child? Tell me. You 
can trust me.” 

“Yes ... I think I have another key! I am not 
sure, but I think it might unlock that big bronze 
door. It is Daddy’s room. I have never been in it. 
Neither has anyone else except Daddy.” 

“That will settle everything!” commended 
Kennedy. 

“Oh, I’m so glad to be able to help him!” she cried. 


THE COPPER ROOM 


187 


“Daddy wrote me a letter a long time ago telling 
me he was very ill. It was that time before he 
married that Bonita woman. He sent me a package 
I have never opened. But in it he said there was a 
key—a big brass key. I was never to tell anyone. 
I was never to use it. I must never take it out with 
me for fear of losing it. It is where I put it that 
day—still. He said his most valuable possessions 
were in his room in the cellar. If he died, or if he 
lost his key, then I could use the duplicate he sent 
me!” 

“Walter, go with her. Ill cover this bunch!” 

Daisy’s cheeks were flushed with excitement as 
she led me up to her room. Over her bed was a 
portrait of a very beautiful young woman. She 
turned around and said simply, “My mother.” 

Then she took the picture down and I saw a small 
wall safe. There, when it was opened, was the 
package from her father. I thought to myself, what 
an unusual child, not to have erred even to the point 
of opening the sealed package. 

Downstairs Daisy drew Kennedy aside, with his 
back to the others as she pressed the key into his 
palm and lifted her beautiful, serious eyes. “For my 
father’s sake, Mr. Kennedy!” 

“There are some people in the yard!” cried Ellen 
herself from the doorway. “I happened to glance 
out of the window from his room, where he’s coming 
along fine. I saw them. They were here once be¬ 
fore, this morning. See!” 

I looked between the shoulders of Kennedy and 
Ellen. There, peering in between the bars of the 
cellar windows, were DelJora and Walworth, with 
stealth and suspicion in every movement. 


188 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Kennedy was out in the garden in a matter of 
seconds, leaving me with our sullen visitors. He 
was back of Walworth and Dellora before they knew 
it. 

“Come in, Miss Delmar—and Walworth, too. 
You may see the cellar, later!” 

Dellora flushed, seemed vexed at Kennedy’s pres¬ 
ence. Walworth was mad, almost fighting mad. 
Dellora motioned to him to be silent, however, and 
follow. 

“Well, is it not cozy?” was Bonita’s greeting to 
Walworth as they entered. The rest were silent. 

Daisy, with Ellen, by this time had run upstairs 
and had seen her father. Daisy was blissfully 
happy. He had known her, had held her close to 
him with all his old-time affection. 

A hasty questioning and a whispered conference 
upstairs, and, Kennedy on one side and Daisy on the 
other, they managed to get Dalrymple down the 
steps safely and into the cellar, while with the butler 
I made the others follow them single file. 

Taking the big brass key out of the velvet box, 
Kennedy unlocked the patina-encrusted bronze door 
at the dank end of the cellar. 

As the bronze door swung open, crowding forward, 
we could see that the brass key opened up what was 
literally a copper room, a room with walls and floor 
and ceiling, all of copper, a room where any secret, 
any treasure could be eternally preserved! 

The copper vault itself was like a museum, rich in 
all manner of archeological lore of Mexico. 

Kennedy found and switched on a light, then led 
Dalrymple to a big chair before a table. Daisy 
dropped on an ottoman at his feet, awed at the 


THE COPPER ROOM 


189 


darkened surroundings, in a dream at having her 
father safe again, with a childlike thrill at the idea 
that something was about to happen. 

“Well, this is safe enough,” remarked Kennedy 
with a glance about at the massive walls, “safe from 
everything but an act of God or the public enemy!” 

Dalrymple smiled weakly. “Safe? The best 
lightning rod in the world is a copper roof with 
copper down spouts, well grounded!” He turned to 
Daisy, smiled, and patted her hand. “Yes, this is as 
near eternal as anything man builds! What is it 
they teach you in Sunday school, dear? ‘Lay up 
your treasure where neither moth nor rust doth 
corrupt’?” 

I was as eager as Daisy to know the secrets of this 
strange room of copper. 

Slowly, weakly, with trembling hand Dalrymple 
picked up a prehistoric Aztec battle-ax of copper. 
On it he pointed to unintelligible hieroglyphics. 

Then his hand moved to a map on which he had 
drawn in bold red a cross. 

“The place is not in Mexico. It is in the States.” 

He dropped back, exhausted, in his chair. Weakly 
he motioned to a small spherical safe in a corner. 

“All the details, the directions, everything, there!” 

Jermine came over and placed his hand on his 
friend’s shoulder. Hitherto he had been only a si¬ 
lent observer. “So,” he said facing the others, “the 
‘fool’ wins! The key is worth millions. In his im¬ 
agination he saw for America a new copper age. 

. . . He has wealth, leisure, happiness”—Jermine 
turned—“He has Daisy!” 


VIII 


THE LIE DETECTOR 

Someone was coming down the rough cellar steps. 
It was Sterling, who handed a rather large package 
to Kennedy. 

Quickly Kennedy unwrapped the package, dis¬ 
closing several instruments, some of cuff-like shape 
with a dial at the end of a tube, others long silken 
bags, with an indicator and a bulb to pump air into 
the tube. 

Kennedy began to fit one on Walworth’s arm, just 
above the elbow. 

“Why, what’s this? That’s the thing they use 
when you try to get out life insurance.” 

“Exactly. That’s where I got these sphygmoma¬ 
nometers, six of them. I got all that were available 
in the uptown offices. We’ll have a little truth- 
insurance!” 

He continued fastening the sphygmomanometers 
over the brachial or arm arteries of Noyes, of Kana- 
kura and Gitano, then of Dellora and Bonita. 

“The lie meter,” he remarked, “may not yet have 
been accepted by the courts as infallible, but sooner 
or later it must be incorporated into the practice of 
justice. The dictagraph, the fingerprint, the Ber- 
tillon system, and other scientific methods of arriv¬ 
ing at the truth were all once looked upon with 
suspicion. But the efficiency of our social machine 

190 


THE LIE DETECTOR 


191 


demands more accurate justice. It demands just 
such a neat mechanical process by which the lies 
may be separated from the truth.” He paused a 
moment. “Fear, pain, anger cause the indicator on 
this dial to jump. I have seen the needle jump 
from fifty to sixty points when a patient tells a lie!” 

Dalrymple, weak but now keen again, was listen¬ 
ing with great interest as Daisy rested her elbow on 
his knee and listened also to Kennedy. He stroked 
Daisy’s hair gently. 

Kennedy smiled as he saw the pair. “Now, 
there’s Dalrymple,” he said. “He’s like copper, him¬ 
self! He stands a tremendous amount of hammer¬ 
ing and pulling. He only becomes harder when he 
is treated rough. And, another thing. He is ever¬ 
lastingly on the job. Under nearly all ordinary 
conditions he has the ability to finish the work 
assigned to him. Yes, Dalrymple’s like copper 
himself.” 

He had evidently said this to get the thoughts of 
the others in a proper channel. Suddenly Craig 
faced Bonita. She glared back, defiantly. 

“When you went to Jermine’s studio to-day, why 
did you wear Dellora’s gown?” he demanded. 

“How in the devil did you know?” gasped Bonita, 
then turning she asked, “Who are your neighbors 
in the shop, Kanakura?” 

“I will look into that, myself!” exclaimed the Jap, 
indignantly. “I have an idea who did the telephon¬ 
ing!” 

Kennedy merely bowed in mock modesty. Noyes 
was looking at everybody sullenly. I suppose he 
could not help thinking that if he had not started 


192 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


the quarrel with Bonita at Kanakura’s none of this 
would have happened. 

Suddenly Kennedy shot at him. “Why did you 
keep quiet so long, Noyes, about Bonita’s husband, 
Nolan?” 

Noyes eyed Kennedy as something uncanny. 
“There may be honor among thieves,” he muttered, 
“but not in this bunch. I needed some weapon to 
hold over somebody!” 

Kennedy nodded, caught sight of what was on the 
table, then turned toward Kanakura and Gitano. 
“Neither of you are competent to decipher these 
hieroglyphics. I suppose you all hoped to get some 
other archeologist to read the mystic message con¬ 
tained in the inscription on the copper blade of the 
ax, eh?” 

Sullen silence was the only answer. “Did you 
have someone handy to decipher the secret of the 
mountain of copper, Kanakura?” reiterated Ken¬ 
nedy. “Is that why you were booked to sail to 
Japan two weeks from to-day? It wouldn’t take a 
very large amount of money to finance a revolution 
compared to the profits and power of an individual 
and a nation that dominated the copper supply of 
the world!” 

There was no word; nothing but an inscrutable 
stare veiled the almond eyes. 

Craig switched. “Was the drug on the Arroyo 
bound for El Toro, Gitano? Or was there more that 
was smuggled up by train? And . . . who was to 
pay for all those guns that I hear some people were 
planning to order? It takes money! Did you think 
it would come from Japan—or copper?” 

For once Gitano’s volubility was squelched. Ken- 


THE LIE DETECTOR 


193 


nedy smiled quietly. “You see, I know much more 
than you think I know. I have secret sources of 
information — Mr. Jameson’s paper — elsewhere. 
Walworth, you happen to be organizing your own 
company, I hear, Copper Promotion, Inc., or some 
such name, of which you are president.” 

Walworth seemed eager to vindicate himself. 
“Yes . . . you know, there’s half a billion dollars a 
year lost in this country just because people don’t do 
as Dalrymple did in this house, with roofs, gutters, 
leaders, flashing, valleys. Brass pipes would save 
another eighty or ninety millions. There’s over 
thirty millions wasted every year in painting, patch¬ 
ing, and repairing screens. What of it? Is there 
anything wrong in seeing a day of copper houses, 
bridges, everything from cradles to caskets?” 

“N-no,” considered Kennedy. “You may not 
know women, Walworth, but there’s one thing you 
do know. You seem to know how to make and sell 
copper and brass—wire, plate, sheet, pipe, rod cop¬ 
per and brass. That is all you know. . . . With 
this thing of Dalrymple’s, that would have been 
enough!” 

Kennedy moved as if he had worked his questions 
to a point where it would be worth while to examine 
the indicators on the sphygmomanometer dials. 

“Dellora,” he asked, “why did you try to pick 
Dalrymple’s lock, last night? How did you manage 
to get Dalrymple away from the others who kid¬ 
napped him this morning? Why did you forge my 
name when he was committed—after the key had 
been stolen from him? Why were you looking in 
that cellar window to locate the copper room down 
here?” 


194 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


I could see that at the mention of Dellora’s name 
and Craig’s sudden massing of questions on her, 
Jermine himself was almost frantic. 

“Tm going to take a look at what the needles tell 
me in my lie detectors,” menaced Craig. 

It was a tense instant. Who was it who would be 
betrayed? Was it Gitano, the Mexican adventurer? 
Or the Jap, Kanakura? I watched Walworth, the 
promoter, and Noyes, the mining engineer. What 
were those two girls, Bonita and Dellora, hiding 
under their outwardly composed exteriors? 

The tension grew as Kennedy bent over a dial. 

“According to this sphygmomanometer ... I 
would say that the brass key is in the possession 
of-” 

There was a shot. The only electric lamp in the 
cellar vault was out. We were in total darkness. 
Someone had shot the light! 




IX 

SECRET SERVICE 

Sterling found another bulb back near the fur¬ 
nace and as he groped and flashed it up, I found that 
I was blocking Gitano at the foot of the cellar stairs. 
On the floor Kanakura had jiu-jitsued Jermine and 
I suppose I would have been next, but for the excla¬ 
mation of Kennedy. 

In the semi-darkness stood Noyes with a still 
smoking revolver, on his arm the smashed 
sphygmomanometer. 

“Bonita and her servant, Gazi, carried Dalrymple 
off,” ground out Craig, as he froze Noyes motionless 
at the yawning, cold blue mouth of his own auto¬ 
matic, “forced to it by the hold you had over her, 
before you cast her off!” 

He nodded to the others, never taking his eye off 
Noyes. “Then he was stolen from them by Deflora 
and Walworth—for safety! Deflora is in reality the 
agent of the United States Government, for the 
Department of Justice, seeking to protect American 
rights in Mexico. Walworth, president of Copper 
Promotion, had appealed to the State Department 
for help. Both of them were there to protect 
Dalrymple. You recall what I said about him!” 

“You forgot one thing,” reminded Walworth with 
a smile. 

“What is that?” 

“Copper is a good mixer. It is useful alone. But 

195 


196 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


it has even greater ability when it is aided by some 
other metal. With Dalrymple I have been living in 
a dream of a copper age. Though it does not appear 
in the incorporation, he is an equal owner with me 
in Copper Promotion, in addition to his royalties per 
ton from the copper mountain!” 

I was astounded. It had not been plotted and 
engineered by Dellora, Jermine’s friend, over whom 
he had been so worried. Nor was it really Bonita. 
It was not Walworth; he was in reality Dalrymple’s 
partner from the moment there was anything in 
which to be partners. It was not the Mex, nor the 
Jap. 

Bonita had taken the key immediately from 
Dalrymple when she had spirited him from the nurse 
Radway; it had been passed to Gazi, who had been 
bribed by Noyes; then Noyes had taken the first 
opportunity to throw her over like a squeezed-out 
lemon. 

As Kennedy felt over the clothes of the promoter- 
faker, Noyes, he struck a lump in his breast pocket— 
the brass key! 

In relief at Dellora’s freedom from suspicion, Jer- 
mine turned to her. “Dellora, didn’t you say you 
would see me—alone—to-day?” 

“Yes—I wanted to hear whether you had anything 
to ask me—before I resigned my job in the depart¬ 
ment to go in the company with Walworth and Mr. 
Dalrymple!” 

“Oh, Daddy!” trilled Daisy. “It’s so nice to think 
I never really had a stepmother like that Bonita! 
Now . . . when you go out to the mine . . . take 
me?”—winding her arms about his neck—“because 
I never, never want to leave you again! ” 














. 




' 












» 


THE BOULEVARD OF BUNK 

I 

THE DIAMOND DANCE 

“Our new Wild West is Wild West Forty-second 
Street—every street that crosses Broadway, the 
great Boulevard of Bunk!” 

The sentence from Kennedy’s talk on the new 
criminality before a little group in a studio in Car¬ 
negie Hall stuck in my mind as a possible newspaper 
theme. 

It was late; so very late that it was almost early. 
We had lingered until nearly three o’clock in the 
morning, long after the others had left, talking with 
our friend Hallor, the artist, in his studio. It had 
snowed several inches the day before; now it was 
sleeting and we were making the best way we could 
on the icy sidewalk down Fifty-sixth Street, looking 
for a taxi. 

Through the sleet I spied the rear light of a taxi 
in the middle of the street between the piles of snow 
heaped up along either gutter. The engine was 
running and I started out over the snow piles into 
the street to see if the cab was vacant. 

“Never mind, Walter,” called Craig from his 
muffled coat. “We’ll be at Broadway and the sub¬ 
way in half a block.” 


199 



200 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

I must have been some forty or fifty feet from 
the cab when a shot rang out; it seemed from above. 
I slipped on the ice, startled but untouched, as 
Kennedy came abreast and pulled me to my feet. 

An instant later three men ran out of an English 
basement four-story brownstone house that had once 
been a dwelling, dived into the open door of the 
waiting cab, and the cab jerked ahead with a fusil¬ 
lade of wild shots back at us from its windows. 

“The license plate was covered!” I panted, as I 
made sure that Craig was untouched also. 

Then I made out what sounded like a muffled 
uproar in the house which I recognized as the Classy 
Club Cabaret, now closed and every window^ dark. 
I started for the door, that had not latched and 
now swung open in the draught. A second floor 
window was partly open. 

Kennedy had stopped and was digging in the 
snowdrift banked up along the gutter before the next 
house, where it had been shoveled off the walk. A 
moment later from the dirty, sleet-covered, brittle, 
glittering snow he drew out a little gun. 

“Evidently someone fired at you—then threw the 
gun out into the snowdrift—to hide it until later.” 

“Some look-out,” I muttered. “Let’s go in!” 

Kennedy and I pushed into the dark hall. There 
was no one, but there was a light in the hall above 
and it was from above that the sounds of turmoil 
came. 

Still holding the little gun in front of him, Craig 
mounted from the basement, to the silent first floor, 
also belonging to the cabaret, then we started for the 
second whence came the sounds. 


THE DIAMOND DANCE 201 

“Look out!” I muttered as I heard what I thought 
was a sound from above in the hall. 

“Strike me pink!” 

What I saw on the staircase above the second 
floor was anything but what I had expected. In¬ 
stead of another gunman I saw a shivering, trembling 
little man in pink pajamas scurrying about in yellow 
fleece-lined slippers. He seemed just about scared 
enough to cave in as he uttered the cockney 
exclamation. 

“Seems to me you’re pink enough as it is. What’s 
the-” 

“Oh, my Gawd! More of the bloody guns!” He 
had just caught sight of the little “gat” in Kennedy’s 
hand. “Oh, my Gawd! What shall I do? What 
shall I do?” 

“Who are you?” demanded Kennedy. 

He looked askance at the gun, his lips quivering so 
that he could hardly speak. “J-jukes, sir. Mr. 
Bullard’s man, sir. Oh, but the bally racket! 
Shoo tin’ and yellin’. The blighters have made 
enough noise to wake the city. The blasted idiots! 
I ’eard the racket and crept down to see— 
bli’me-” 

“Where’s Mr. Bullard now?” 

“In there, sir. It’s a party in the private ballroom 
of the Classy Club, sir. He told me not to wait up. 
So I went to bed in my room, in the rear on the 
fourth floor. In the middle of the night I hear the 
bloomin’ shots—so I crept down—just as I heard the 
front door below banging. . . . But I cawn’t go into 
that ballroom with only me pink pants on . . . 
where them yellin’ ladies is!” 





202 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“All right, Jukes, get your clothes on and come 
down. Ill go in.” 

Craig stood for a second, his hand on the knob. 
I wondered why they were not all out in the hall. 
But it was for only a second I wondered. Suddenly 
there were blows on the other side of the door. It 
was locked. 

“Locked ’em in, Walter!” exclaimed Kennedy. 
“Come on! ” The newel post on the stairs was loose 
and he ripped it out. Then with the post as a batter¬ 
ing ram he splintered one panel of the door near the 
lock. Through the splintered panel I could catch 
enough of the little private ballroom to see that in it 
was the most agitated group of people imaginable. 
It didn’t take long to batter the rest of the door in. 

A hasty glance about at the agitated little mob in 
evening dress and Kennedy was over by a woman 
lying on the floor. 

“Is it anything serious?” Without waiting for 
an answer, he knelt down beside her and felt her 
pulse. Then he made a hasty examination of a 
wound on her forehead over her eye. 

“Have you called a doctor—an ambulance?” 

“We tried to, but w T e couldn’t get Central.” It 
was a very pretty girl, a show girl, w T ho spoke. 

“So! Your telephone wflres were cut—and you 
were all locked in the room. A very thorough job. 
What’s it all about? How was the woman hurt?” 

A very excited woman, with blood streaming from 
the lobe of her ear, rushed up screaming hysterically 
in the babel, “I’ve been robbed—robbed—all my 
jewels are gone—nearly two hundred thousand dol¬ 
lars’ worth of them—gone!” 

She fell on the floor beside a chair and buried her 


THE DIAMOND DANCE 


203 


face in a fine lace handkerchief which was already 
spattered with blood, sobbing bitterly. “And Jim 
didn't know I was going out to-night! Oh, why did 
I ever come? Jim will be wild! Husband and 
jewels—the same night!" 

“Come, Frieda, let Lorraine help you!" coaxed a 
stunningly tall creature, slim and sinuous, as she 
came up and put her arms about the woman. 

Kennedy shook his head at the girl, whom I recog¬ 
nized from her pictures but could not quite place. 
“They must have been in a hurry. They've torn 
one earring out of the woman's ear!" 

“Yes, Mr. Kennedy," she nodded, her quick ear 
having caught one or two of my own exclamations to 
Craig, “but the biggest loser is Mrs. Kaufman." She 
glanced at the prostrate woman, stunned by the 
blow, but coming out of it now as Craig bandaged 
her head as best he could, with a towel that someone 
brought from the washroom. “She had on half a 
million dollars’ worth of jewels. They’ve taken 
everything but the jeweled baby pins in her shoulder 
straps! She resisted—and they beat her up." She 
managed to get the sobbing woman to her feet. 

“How much did you lose, Miss—er-" 

“Miss Sawtelle." At once I recognized Lorraine 
Sawtelle of the Revelry Revue. “I—I lost—not so 
much. I have only a few simple things—and even 
those I didn't wear to-night." 

A young chap who looked as if he were not yet out 
of college obtruded himself. 

“Be careful, Lorraine. Don’t talk. That man’s 
that detective, Kennedy—don’t you know?" 

At once I recognized Marshall deForest, the young 
spendthrift who had broken into print more or less 



204 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

in the last month or two, going through a sudden 
legacy of a hundred thousand dollars in his rapid- 
fire courtship of Lorraine Sawtelle, whom he had 
married, running away from Yale in the middle of 
his junior year. 

By the answer she gave him, mingled indifference 
and slight, I gathered that both the legacy and 
Lorraine were fini, that Marshall was slated for the 
ash can. 

“Were you all in the room when it happened ?” 
asked Kennedy, who by this time had Mrs. Kaufman 
sitting, dazed, in a chair. “It seems strange that— 
seven, eight men couldn’t do something against 
three. But, of course, the three were ready— 
armed.” 

“Yes,” Lorraine snapped, “we were all here but— 
but Cliff Ryerson. Cliff is the only man that still 
has his diamond studs. All the rest were taken. He 
was in the men’s dressing room.” 

“Yes, it seems as if I missed the little fracas—all 
but the end of it.” There was a sickly smile on the 
young man’s face. “To tell you the truth, I guess I 
was born on the water-wagon. I drank some of the 
stuff they called Scotch to-night and it made me 
deathly nauseated. I had to leave the room—get 
out of the heat, where I could get into the cold air.” 

A couple of fellows who looked like two-handed 
drinkers, although they had not proved themselves 
two-fisted in the hold-up, smiled sarcastically as if it 
sounded weak to them. But it didn’t bother Ryer¬ 
son. He stuck to his story. 

We were interrupted now by the entrance of a 
couple of policemen who had heard the shots and 
found the door still open. 


THE DIAMOND DANCE 


205 


I fairly gasped as the details of the million dollar 
diamond robbery within a hundred feet of the white 
lights of Broadway were unfolded to me, a scoop for 
the Star dropped right into my hands like a plum 
—the story of how Mrs. Loretta Kaufman, the 
Lady of the Diamonds, had been held up at the 
Diamond Dance at the Classy Club Cabaret within 
a stone’s throw of Columbus Circle. 

It seemed that there had been a larger dance first 
at the cabaret downstairs, followed by a little private 
dance upstairs after the cabaret had closed under 
the new police restrictions. 

“Who lives in this house?” demanded one of the 
police, as Kennedy told of finding Jukes in the hall 
and Jukes, now clothed and in his right mind, con¬ 
firmed it. “Who is this Mr. Bullard?” 

“I’m Bullard, Scott Bullard.” A rather dapper, 
slight chap stepped forward. I recognized him now 
as “Bull” Bullard, who was well known in .the jazz 
circles along the line as a sort of professional escort 
to Mrs. Kaufman, w T hose husband, ten or fifteen 
years older than herself, showed a marked preference 
for business rather than jazz palaces. 

“Oscar Rasche and I have the whole top floor,” 
went on Bullard, “three rooms and a bath with a 
room in the rear for our man, Jukes.” 

“That’s the top floor. This is the second. What’s 
on the third?” asked Kennedy. 

“Two apartments, one in front, the other in the 
rear. The front apartment is for rent.” 

“What of the other?” 

“Two fellows have it—De Angeles and Ostroff. I 
think they do a little bootlegging on the side—a 
little for the Classy Club downstairs, I believe.” 


206 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

As I looked him over I thought there was a touch 
of effeminacy in Bullard. But at any rate, Mrs. 
Kaufman found him very amusing as a pal. As for 
Oscar Rasche, I now placed him as a female imper¬ 
sonator in the Revue, the only “girl” in the show 
who for obvious reasons wore many clothes. Rasche 
was a tough-looking fellow in real life, although it 
may have been affectation, such as I have seen on 
the part of stage female impersonators. 

“Don’t you think you ought to get Loretta to her 
apartment where she can have her own physician— 
without this notoriety?” 

This suggestion was from a quiet-voiced girl who 
had been talking with Clifton Ryerson. 

Taking their pedigrees, the police had found, with 
Kennedy, that Ryerson was a young chemist re¬ 
cently graduated from the Tech, and employed by 
the Kaufman Power and Chemical Company, the 
firm of Mrs. Kaufman’s husband. The girl with 
him had given her name as Waverly Wayne. I 
could see that there was a romance between the two, 
at least on Ryerson's part. 

In the coatroom, as the guests were getting their 
things after having given the police their names, 
addresses, and what little they knew, there was a 
sudden outcry. It seemed that the coats had been 
rifled. 

“They must have done that first!” exclaimed 
Rasche. 

Waverly Wayne, as Ryerson helped her on with 
her coat, seemed perplexed. 

As for Kennedy, noting that the coatroom was a 
front hall bedroom and that the window was partly 


THE DIAMOND DANCE 207 

open, he pulled out the little gun that he had picked 
out of the snow. 

“Ever see that?” he asked. 

There was a general crowding about and some 
whispered murmurs. “Why,” exclaimed Marshall 
deForest, “isn’t that yours, Waverly?” 

Waverly Wayne looked at it a moment. Then 
felt in her coat. “It looks like mine. Mine’s gone. 
I’ve carried one ever since that attack in Detroit.” 

Behind me I could hear the roommates, Bullard 
and Rasche, with Lorraine. I gathered from their 
muttering that Waverly Wayne, also in the Revue, 
was unique, the only girl they had ever known who 
always declined offers of wealthy old “angels” to 
back her show career. Consequently they looked on 
her with suspicion as if she must be waiting her time 
to pull off some big coup. 

“I’m sure it was she that ran in the coatroom 
after they left and locked the outside door,” whis¬ 
pered Lorraine. 

Kennedy dropped the little gun back in his pocket. 
Mrs. Kaufman was showing the effects of the strain, 
and it was his first care to get her away—himself. 

Outside we found a couple of cars belonging to 
guests parked up the street where the snow had been 
carted away. In both the spark plugs were out. 
The gunmen had taken no chances. 

Finally we located a cab, not a difficult matter 
now, in the excitement, and at last delivered the 
nervous, almost hysterical Loretta Kaufman safely 
into the hands of her sleepy French maid, Fifi, at her 
Riverside Drive apartment. 

“Such a woman!” exclaimed the mercurial little 
Fifi, when she had all the other servants alarmed and 


208 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


attending to her mistress, while we waited in a 
drawing-room, until we knew that her physician had 
arrived. “So careless—so careless! ” Fifi raised her 
arms and brought her hands together before her face, 
and shook her head mournfully. “Many times, oh, so 
many times, I tell her. But she listen not to me. 
Mr. Kaufman, he tells her. She only laugh, easy.” 
Again Fifi shrugged her trim little shoulders. 

“Mrs. Kaufman say nobody would ever think be¬ 
cause she wear valuable jewels. Ah! We do not 
know what people know and think. She is so good; 
she think people be that way to her. I am so glad, 
oh, so happee they did not do her any more hurt. 
They might have kill!” 

“Did you ever see anybody suspicious hanging 
about or making inquiries—anyone who might know 
that Mrs. Kaufman was wearing the jewels—so 
many?” 

“Oh, no, no! The only people I see who know the 
value are Mr. Kaufman and Mr. Bullard. They 
know and they both warn her—many times. But 
she laugh. If Mrs. Kaufman put on a pretty red 
dress, then she wear her pretty red jewels or jewels 
that go with red. Then there are the emeralds— 
she 'have, oh, such good taste and such beautiful 
jewels. . . . 

“After Mrs. Kaufman leave this night, Mr. Bul¬ 
lard, he call up and ask for Madame. I tell him 
that she go to dance and she look beautiful. Then 
he ask to know what she wear. I tell him her beau¬ 
tiful lace gown with the diamonds. Then he seem 
please that she be wonderful at the party which is 
big. I hear him say it be Diamond Dance, all the 
ladees would have many diamonds and he want her 


THE DIAMOND DANCE 209 

to know that on© try to outshine—er? He veree 
please, then hang up—hein?” 

“Where is Mr. Kaufman?” asked Kennedy, as the 
doctor arrived. “Is he at home?” 

“Non. Mr. Kaufman—oh—he is—well—he is 
not at home.” She could not escape Kennedy’s in¬ 
terrogating eye. She winked with a whimsical little 
French shrug. “Often—there are telephone call for 
him—from Mees Lorraine Sawtelle, of the Revue— 
ah-” 

“But Lorraine Sawtelle was at the dance. I saw 
her myself. Besides, she is married to a young man 
—Mr. deForest.” 

“Ah—so may be. Then Meestair Kaufman he 
must really be as he said gone on trip to the factori 
—up the state!” 

“Well,” ejaculated Kennedy under his breath as 
we left the elevator and turned into the Drive to 
walk the few blocks up to our own apartment in the 
driving morning sleet, “just a little bit more than 
usual of the bunk of the boulevard in this!” 




II 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 

Early editions of all the afternoon papers were 
full of the million dollar diamond mystery the next 
day. All of them played it up but, as usual, the 
Star led all the rest. Following my tip, they turned 
the staff loose on it and obtained an interview with 
Loretta’s husband, Kurt Kaufman, head of the 
Kaufman Power and Chemical Company, just as he 
arrived back in town on the Empire State express at 
half-past eight in the morning. 

As I ran through the hastily concocted news 
stories, I could see that it was generally agreed that 
the two bootleggers, De Angeles and Ostroff, the 
real gunmen, were suspected. But there was not a 
paper that did not conclude from the facts that it 
had been an inside plot, engineered by the con¬ 
nivance of someone in the party or close to it. The 
question they could not answer and did not yet at¬ 
tempt to answer was the simple one: Who? 

Neither Kennedy nor I were surprised as the 
morning wore along at the ringing of the laboratory 
buzzer. We had expected to be called in on the case, 
but whether by O’Connor or the district attorney or 
Mr. Kaufman himself remained to be seen. 

A bustling young man, who looked as if he might 
be the efficiency expert of a large corporation, en- 

i210 


\ 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 211 

tered and plunged directly into his errand in a most 
businesslike manner. 

“I represent the Metropolitan Burglary Insurance 
Company, Professor Kennedy,” he introduced him¬ 
self. “Detective Harry Clews, for the company.” 
He handed Craig his card and a letter from an offi¬ 
cial of his company. “Mr. Thwaite of the Interna¬ 
tional referred us to you, sir. And, of course, even 
though we are rivals, so to speak, we are familiar 
with your success for International Burglary in the 
Romanoff crown jewel case.” 

Efficiency stuck out all over Harry Clews. So 
much so, that there was no chance even for profes¬ 
sional jealousy to intrude. He was frankly always 
telling you that above all things it was results that 
counted, not the individual. He seemed to me the 
type who would prove to you that six inches off 
bridal veils would clothe the South Sea islanders, 
and by cutting the gas consumption of hearses an 
Eskimo motor haulage would bring the Arctic Circle 
within the commuting area. 

Kennedy was prone to accept the offer of the 
company, more from his interest in the case than 
even for the generous recompense promised. Con¬ 
sequently he listened in silence as Clews told him 
he was to have an absolutely free hand and then laid 
down the lines on which he personally thought Craig 
should proceed. 

As nearly as I could determine from Clews’ rapid- 
fire summary, he suspected everybody. If any more 
came into it, he would suspect them, too. Marshall 
deForest was broke. Lorraine Sawffelle being a re¬ 
vue vamp, was an adventuress and capable of any¬ 
thing. Cliff Ryerson was ambitious, in love with a 


212 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


show girl, and poor. That was enough. “Bull” 
Bullard, of course, as a tango tout of Broadway, 
might very properly be arrested at once. The same 
applied to his pal, Oscar Rasche. All show people 
were potentially unprincipled. Therefore Waverly 
Wayne had long been plotting a big haul. 

“Yes,” agreed Kennedy quietly, without contradic¬ 
tion, “someone is guilty. Now, I wouldn't for the 
world interfere in any line of action you deem 
proper. I have my own peculiar ways of working. 
They won’t interfere. I am absolutely in accord 
' with you. Results count; not individuals, not 
methods.” 

Clews nodded an efficient acquiescence. “By the 
way, there is just one other thing I am directed to 
call to your attention. We have learned something 
of Mr. Kaufman’s experiments in his works over in 
Brooklyn in the manufacture of artificial diamonds 
under tremendously high pressures by the use of the 
electric furnace. We understand that it is in the 
experimental laboratory partly on this work that 
young Ryerson is employed.” Clews turned indul¬ 
gently to me, indicating his knowledge also of my 
business. “I think I see a newspaper science story 
in it—‘Making Million-Volt Diamonds,’ or some 
such thing. Mr. Kaufman’s process, I believe, has 
really made little ones. He expects to make big 
ones soon. I thought it might interest you, sir.” 
He bowed his way out as Kennedy thanked him. 

“Where are you going to start?” I asked as the 
whirlwind of efficiency departed. 

“Just where he thinks I am, so I can overtake him 
and get ahead of him on his own tracks. I am going 
over to Kurt Kaufman’s laboratory. It’s down by 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 


213 


the river in Brooklyn. I don’t know what it looks 
like, but I’d like to get in to Kaufman before he 
knows it.” 

It was another cold and windy day. Stinging 
blasts from the river made our faces smart and the 
wind almost took us off our feet as we struggled 
down to the Kaufman shops from the end of one 
of the bridges. 

The shops were most modern reinforced concrete 
buildings that lapped over from one block to another. 
Craig made some general inquiries at the office on 
the ground floor, found that Mr. Kaufman was not 
there, and that the experimental laboratory was on 
the next block, toward the river. We saw a man 
enter and pass through a building down there, and 
followed. Back of it was an open space and at the 
far end a stalwart square building, also of concrete, 
isolated, one-story. 

Kennedy turned the knob of the door to the little 
building. The door opened and we found ourselves 
in a little anteroom. There was no one to greet us 
or stop us and we had made no noise. On the other 
side of a partition we could hear the voices of two 
men. 

“What’s the use of quibbling, Ryerson? I hear 
that you were over at the Bliss plant looking for a 
position.” 

“I am not quibbling, Mr. Kaufman. I believe I 
am at liberty to work where I find it most congenial, 
in spite of the Kaufman scholarship I held at Tech. 
To be perfectly frank with you, I would prefer to be 
working on the production of helium by smashing 
the atoms of carbon in that searchlight than to be 
trying to put carbon atoms together in diamonds. I 


214 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

think there’s a bigger field in working on atomic 
energy in that way than—well, there’s too much 
talk about diamonds, here—that’s all!” 

We heard a fist banged down on the table and 
Kaufman’s voice raised in anger. “Too much talk 
about diamonds, eh? That’s what I thought this 
morning, young man, when I got off the train. . . . 
There weren’t too many diamonds or too much 
energy for you, last night!” 

“That is another matter. I went with Waverly 
Wayne because Mrs. Kaufman asked us. I wish I 
hadn’t gone.” 

“You do, do you? Well, it’s damn funny to me. 
All the men lost their diamonds, too—except you, 
Ryerson. Did Waverly lose anything?” The re¬ 
mark was quite pointed. 

The younger man seemed to flare with anger re¬ 
strained with difficulty. “No. Waverly had none 
to lose. I can’t afford to give her diamonds. . . . 
What about Lorraine Sawtelle? She had some bril¬ 
liants you gave her, mighty valuable ones. She 
left them all home. What do you make of that?” 

“You young mud-slinger! She left her diamonds 
home, did she? Well, maybe she listens to reason. 
I’ve told her, I’ve told my wife, that some day they 
were going to get into a mess going out into the 
white lights like walking Tiffanys. She left them 
home. Well, Waverly brought her gun, all right. 
She didn’t leave that home-” 

“No, Kaufman, and the less you say about that, 
the better. Have you forgotten Detroit? Maybe 
you don’t know I know. Well, once Waverly heard 
a chair placed against her door in the hall when she 
had retired for the night in her hotel. She sprang 





THE DIAMOND MAKER 


215 


out of bed and listened. Outside she heard a man’s 
heavy breathing. She could hear his hand reach 
for and turn the transom as he mounted the chair. 
She was trembling with rage and fright. She 
reached for her dressing gown and switched on the 
light. Then she screamed with terror as a hand 
came in through the transom. The hand slowly 
opened and a spark seemed to drop to the floor. It 
was a large diamond ring that flashed a thousand 
colors as it rolled toward her bare feet. She heard 
some one: ‘Be quiet! That’s a five carat diamond! 
Open the door!’ 

“You know who that was, Kaufman! You know 
Waverly refused your offer to be her ‘angel.’ But 
you made a hit with Lorraine—just as that foolish 
fortune of Marshall was dwindling. Kaufman, 
you’re the kind that loves the ladies—but you don’t 
like ’em!” 

“You-” 

There was a sound as if a scuffle was imminent and 
Craig interrupted by turning the knob of the inner 
door. Instantly both men cooled in the presence of 
strangers. Kennedy pretended to have heard noth¬ 
ing, to have seen nothing. Apparently what he 
wanted first of all was to learn about Kaufman 
Process Diamonds as an opening for more pertinent 
questions. 

“Well, that’s the electric furnace,” explained 
Kaufman, as Ryerson continued sullenly at work on 
something. “You see the electrodes at either end. 
When the current is on and led through them into 
the furnace, you can get the most amazing tempera¬ 
tures in the crucible. The most refractory chemical 




216 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


compounds can be broken up by that heat. What’s 
the highest temperature you’ve obtained, Ryerson?” 

“Oh, I’ve gone over three thousand degrees Centi¬ 
grade,” returned Ryerson, not even looking up. 

“You see,” Kaufman continued, with a sort of 
pride as he arranged everything, “here is a lump of 
sugar carbon. Diamonds, as you know, are com¬ 
posed of pure carbon crystallized under enormous 
pressure. Now, my theory is that if we can combine 
an enormous pressure and an enormous heat we can 
manufacture diamonds. The problem of pressure is 
the thing, for here in the furnace I believe we have 
the necessary heat. It occurred to me that when 
molten iron cools it exerts a tremendous pressure. 
That pressure is what I use. You know, solid iron 
floats on molten iron as solid water, ice, floats on 
liquid water.” 

He took a piece of pure sugar carbon and placed it 
in a soft iron cup. Then he screwed a cap on over 
the cup. 

“Watch,” he said. “I place this mass of iron 
scraps in the crucible of the furnace and start the 
furnace.” 

He turned a switch and long bluish sheets of flame 
spurted from the electrodes. It was weird, grew- 
some. One could feel the heat of the tremendous 
electric discharge. The furnace roared and vapor 3 
increased. As the vapors increased it became a 
better conductor of electricity and the roaring 
ceased. In almost no time the mass of iron scraps 
became molten. Suddenly Kaufman plunged the 
cast-iron cup into the seething mass. The cup 
floated and began to melt. 

As it did so, he waited tensely until the proper 


THE DIAMOND MAKER 


217 


moment. Then with a deft motion he seized the 
whole thing with a long pair of tongs and plunged it 
in a screened vat of running water. A huge cloud of 
steam almost exploded. 

“I did that just to show you how it’s done. As 
the molten mass cools and solidifies, we take it out 
of the water and then lay it on an anvil. Then my 
assistant begins to hammer it with careful sharp 
blows, chipping off the outside. You see, we have 
to get down to the core of carbon gently. First, 
rather brittle cast-iron, then hard iron, then iron 
and carbon, then some black diamonds, and in the 
very center the Kaufman process diamonds. I have 
not told you all of the trade secrets. There is one 
other. Soon we shall have the commercial artificial 
diamond.” He smiled. “Every day in every way 
they are getting larger and larger!” I noticed, how¬ 
ever, that he did not exhibit any. 

I had been noting the sullen manner of Ryerson 
all through the interview, and the silent antagonism 
between Kaufman and himself. When Kennedy 
turned the conversation about to the robbery of the 
night before, there was nothing Kaufman would say 
beyond a remark with a covert sneer toward 
Ryerson. 

“I am not surprised that she was robbed. Often 
I have told her she would be!” 

Ryerson caught the look and it seemed to bring 
all his antagonism to a head. 

“Mr. Kaufman,” he exclaimed, laying down a 
small crucible he had been packing and deliberately 
unbuttoning his working apron, “I think this is the 
time to resent innuendoes about that affair last 


218 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


night. I hereby tender my resignation to take effect 
at once!” 

Kaufman looked at him a moment, then a smile 
of mock deference covered his face, and he replied, 
as much for Kennedy’s benefit as to answer Ryerson: 

“I am afraid you cannot, Mr. Ryerson—until I 
accept it. You are under contract until the end of 
the year.” 

Ryerson flung down the apron resentfully. He 
realized that as a contract-breaker he would be vir¬ 
tually blacklisted. 

“I retain you to be of whatever assistance you may 
be to Mr. Kennedy in clearing this matter up,” 
added Kaufman, as he bowed himself out of the door. 
“I shall be happy to assist you at any time, gentle¬ 
men—good morning.” 


Ill 


SCANDALMONGERING 

“That was very kind of Mr. Kaufman to put 
Ryerson at my disposal and I may take advantage of 
it before either of them realize it; but just now I 
wish he had been able to do the same with his wife,” 
remarked Kennedy as we headed back over the 
bridge, leaving young Ryerson, his theatrics over, 
to pick up the stained apron he had so heatedly 
flung down. 

The Kurt Kaufman apartment was in a splendid 
and imposing building. As we rode up in the eleva¬ 
tor, I marveled at the co-operative luxury of wealth. 
The maid, Fifi, met us at the door. She seemed 
distressed, almost relieved, at seeing us. 

“Is Mrs. Kaufman in?” asked Kennedy. 

Fifi answered with a quick nod. Her face was a 
picture of indignation. “There is man named 
Meestair Clews—he is worry Madame to distract. 
He speak—oh so cruel—to her. I feel so angree— 
she have enough trouble!” Her dark eyes snapped. 

“Where are they?” inquired Kennedy, secretly 
elated with having gone over the ground and already 
caught up with Clews. 

“In the breakfast room, just off Madame’s bou¬ 
doir. It is so sunny; it is good. Doctor Schultz, he 
tell her to sit there all day in the sun. But that 
man, he is no good for Madame to talk to—ver’ 

219 



220 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


bad.” She threw up her hands expressively. Then, 
with a smile of coaxing, as if even if she were a 
maid she was a French woman, she took Kennedy’s 
arm and whispered excitedly, “I take you in 
Madame’s boudoir. You listen to this Meestair 
Clews—and if it get too terrible—you w r ill stop 
heem—eh? I cannot do anything with that 
man. He is detectif. But you—ah—that will be 
different!” 

Kennedy nodded, amused at the girl’s loyalty to 
her mistress. We followed her softly into the bou¬ 
doir. She indicated seats, curtsied, and left the 
room. I glanced at Craig apprehensively as I heard 
sobs, sobs of bitterness and pain, wrung from a 
woman who only the night before had been sorely 
wounded by a hold-up man and stripped of a 
fortune. 

“Oh, Mr. Clews, please stop those vile insinua¬ 
tions! Is it for this I pay money to have my jewels 
insured—to be insulted by the first representative 
who calls to investigate?” 

There was a plaintive note in it, but it struck wide 
of Clews. “Cut that out, Mrs. Kaufman. The open 
tear-bag may work with some. Not with me. Nor 
does it impress the company I represent.” 

I could hear him scratch a match and light a cigar, 
regardless of Mrs. Kaufman’s feelings, as much as 
to tell her, “Here I am and here I propose to stay 
until you talk my way.” Continued sobbing brought 
a scowl to Kennedy’s face. Ruthlessness to any 
woman stirred him to anger. No woman was guilty, 
at least until it had been proved. Until then 
courtesy and consideration were his rules. Only his 
desire to hear the “third degree” kept him still. 



SCANDALMONGERING 


221 


Intently Craig listened and as he listened his eye 
traveled keenly about the room. It was a beautiful 
room, although it did not show much of the person¬ 
ality of the owner. It was rather a rich room, deter¬ 
mined and completed by an exclusive interior 
decorator, who based its adornment not so much 
on the personality of the occupant as on the number 
of figures of the customer’s bank account. 

In one corner Craig saw a small desk. He tip¬ 
toed over silently and picked up an elaborately 
tooled rose leather diary. He opened it quickly, 
then took a small notebook from his waistcoat 
pocket and made several entries from the diary. I 
leaned over, too. 

Under date of September 10, I read, “Kurt paid 
insurance—$12,000.” Rapidly Craig turned and 
scanned the pages. Under the date of January 12, 
he noted, “Pledge on Czar’s thousand carat aqua¬ 
marine, due, at Plimson’s. . . . Debts . . . debts 
. . . debts. . . . Even if I can redeem it, that won’t 
pay all the others!” 

Kennedy elevated his eyebrows, closed the book, 
and listened more intently as the Clews bullyragging 
of Loretta Kaufman became more vehement. It 
seemed that Clews had leaped without warning into 
some smart society gossip of the relations of Loretta 
Kaufman and “Bull” Bullard. 

“The company knows what you have been doing,” 
he insinuated in a nasty nice tone. “They know 
that you have been chasing all over creation with 
this young Bullard. . . . That takes money, too.” 

“But Mr. Clews, Mr. Bullard has not had any of 
my money. Mr. Kaufman once paid him a salary 
for his "work as a social secretary and I have given 


222 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

him a few presents. I tell you, it is only a business, 
a professional arrangement. . . . There is nothing 
in what you—you suggest!” 

“All I can say is I doubt if you get a cent until 
you can prove that either you or this young Bullard 
did not pull off the whole affair with outside help!" 

“Do you mean to tell me that you accuse me of 
taking my own jewels myself? . . . Oh! ... if I 
were not ill . . . you would pay for that remark!” 

“You’re not the first woman to get in a tight place 
for money and then try to fool the insurance com¬ 
pany. But you don’t count on the eyes that the 
company employs. Neither does Bullard. No, the 
insurance company will never pay a cent—under the 
circumstances. You were involved with Bullard, 
socially—ah—and we can prove it. You took risks, 
great risks. No court will make us pay. Depend 
on that. Now, Mrs. Kaufman . . . when we have 
a client, a big client, we do not wait for a robbery 
to take place. Oh, no. 'We watch our client, gather 
information—about the habits, see who also associ¬ 
ates and watches. Then, if anything happens—we 
are ready. . . . We know of debts—of losses at 
poker—at bridge—oh, we know a great deal!” 

“Mr. Clews! I’ll have to ask you to go. I can 
stand no more to-day. You don’t understand it 
yourself, but I am far from well. I am almost in 
a faint now. . . . Please—go!” 

“After you tell me all you did during the last two 
days.” 

“I can’t! I will not! I’ll answer nothing more— 
unless Mr. Kaufman is present!” 

“He doesn’t seem to be worrying very much. All 
he says is, T told her so!’ ” 




SCANDALMONGERING 


223 


“Oh!” 

Kennedy decided he had let it go far enough. 
Hastily he coughed, then entered the breakfast room, 
bowing low to Mrs. Kaufman, with a curt nod in 
the direction of Clews. He moved over to the chaise 
longue on which the invalid had been resting, but 
on which now she had dropped in her exhausted 
nervousness. With a smile and a nod he straight¬ 
ened a pillow and placed it on the others. 

“Just take things easy. Don’t allow yourself to 
get excited.” 

As I looked at her frightened defiant face, I re¬ 
called at least one of Kennedy’s cases where the 
woman herself had rigged the robbery—for the in¬ 
surance company to pay. I glanced at Clews. He 
was cryptic. Loretta Kaufman had almost broken 
down as she became defiant over Bullard. Clews 
was in his element. 

“Clews,” nodded Kennedy, drawing himself up, 
“I’ll take charge here, now.” 

That was all he said, but I saw a look of relief 
pass over Mrs. Kaufman’s face. Clews was inclined 
to be chagrined, to resist. But he swallowed his 
efficiency as he caught and could not counter Ken¬ 
nedy’s eye. 

Somehow as he withdrew, with ill grace, I could 
not resist the suspicion. Was Harry Clews for the 
Metropolitan Burglary really what Barker, formerly 
of the International Company, had been—head of 
a band of crooks, perhaps bootleggers, gunmen? 

“Mrs. Kaufman,” Kennedy reassured her, “my 
questioning may embarrass you—I know it will— 
but there is this feature that must be gone through 
in a robbery like this. No discourtesy is meant. It 


224 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


is only business exactness. I think you must 
understand.” 

She nodded timidly. Her white hand was opening 
and shutting nervously. Frequently she carried her 
other hand to her bandaged head as if to suppress 
the throbbing. 

“You know, I have many sources of information, 
Mrs. Kaufman. In my profession, one must have. 
I have learned that you are more involved than Mr. 
Kaufman has any idea—and I think it has worried 
you. Am I right?” 

She looked at Craig fearfully. His gentleness and 
seeming detachment from what provoked her finan¬ 
cial embarrassment were encouraging, at least, after 
that terrible man, Clews. She nodded, merely—- 
hardly even an affirmative. But I saw two tears 
steal slowly over her cheeks. 

“Also, I have learned that you had the Czar’s 
aquamarine pledged and that that money is due in 
two days. I believe that this, with your other debts, 
is almost more than you can stand.” 

Loretta sat up straight, a startled look in her eyes, 
fear. “Mr. Kennedy! You know that? . . . What 
kind of man are you? What else do you know?” 
She was trembling like a leaf in an October blast. 
She pressed her hands to her face, moaned, sobbing, 
“Oh—the disgrace of it all! . . . Why has he made 
me do it?” 

It was almost as if my ears had gone up like a 
hound’s. Was she admitting the fact that she was 
an accomplice? 

“What did you mean by that, Mrs. Kaufman?” 
shot out Craig. “Did Bullard lead you on? Please 
tell me!” 


SCANDALMONGERING 


225 


At the mere mention of Bullard's name she 
seemed to gain a new control of herself. There was 
defiance in her manner, now. 

“You may think what you please! I have not 
said I stole. I have admitted nothing. You all 
jump on that boy whefi he is down! What has Mr. 
Bullard done to anyone? I’ll show the world that 
he has one defender—if I go down with him! . . . 
I’m sick of hearing ‘Bullard, Bullard, Bullard!’ That 
is all you men think about in this case! . . . Just 
watch some of the others. Don’t waste all your 
energies on Mrs. Kaufman and Mr. Bullard!” 

“I am not wasting energy,” answered Kennedy, 
more cryptic than Clews had ever been. 

“Mr. Kennedy, my doctor told me to rest. What 
do you think about it?” 

“A very good idea. I would put it into immediate 
practice. Good morning, Mrs. Kaufman!” 

With a bow we were both out in the hall. 

Twenty minutes later we ran into Assistant Dis¬ 
trict Attorney Peters down at Bullard’s, questioning 
that gentleman on the spot, and to the chagrin of 
the newspaper men outside Peters invited us to sit 
in. Bullard seemed to have something venomous up 
his sleeve. At sight of Kennedy he seemed to de¬ 
cide to shoot it. 

“If you gentlemen will look up the record,” he 
said in an almost effeminate voice, “you will find 
that Cliff Ryerson bought that gun for W T averly 
Wayne—and when it came to getting her a permit 
under the Sullivan law to carry it, he took her 
around to the captain of the precinct and obtained 

the permit.” 



226 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“How do you happen to know all this?” queried 
Craig. 

Bullard smiled quietly. “The gun was got because 
of Mr. Kaufman. It may have been used because 
of Mrs. Kaufman. Do I make myself clear? There 
was a million dollars in it—for someone!” 


IV 


HEART BALM 

Bullard had just delivered his spiteful insinua¬ 
tion against Waverly and Cliff Ryerson to Assistant 
District Attorney Peters, and it seemed to me was 
very much satisfied with himself. 

There was a smart rap at the door and Peters 
opened it himself, to be almost overwhelmed by 
breezy Tommy Thomas of the Record . 

“Heard the latest?” Then without waiting, for 
he knew that we could not have heard, he spurted 
ahead. “Waverly Wayne has given the Revue 
French leave—disappeared—just like that—pouf!” 

Bullard could not repress a smile. He looked 
about at us all for approval of his own detective 
acumen, seeming to say, “See? You can’t fool this 
wise old owl!” 

“Where did you hear that?” 

“At the Revue rehearsal. Everybody’s talking 
about it down there. She didn’t show up at the 
rehearsal and she even sent in her resignation—a 
letter, without any explanation except that she 
wanted to go away to rest.” Tommy was bubbling 
over to tell it. “You should hear those twists! I 
learned more in five minutes from them than I could 
have learned in five weeks reading those very good 
exposes and sob stories your people are running in 
the Star, Jameson,” he bandied. 

227 



228 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“Well, what did they say?” queried Craig. 

“Oh, that she must have picked up a live one— 
that she must have struck a gusher. She was com¬ 
paratively poor—depended on her two hundred a 
week from the show to live—and that won’t buy 
many Rolls-Royces and Pic-Pics, like the rest of 
them have, or broadtails and Russian sables, and 
all that sort of thing. You don’t throw up a good 
job for nothing when you’ve got nothing, they said; 
so what was it? . . . 

“Sawtelle was the real cat, though. I couldn’t 
help but laugh at some of the things she said—for 
instance, ‘Don’t worry! Nobody’s going to wear 
those sparklers where the police can give ’em the 
0. 0./ and ‘I think I’d beat it, too, if they found my 
gun and my Johnny was the only man in the bunch 
that wasn’t robbed!’ ” 

Tommy had at least some puzzle in his news. The 
claque had it right. How could she afford to quit? 
It was suspicious. Was it a virtual confession? I 
thought of Ryerson’s rather theatric offer that morn¬ 
ing to resign from Kaufman. Could there have been 
any connection? 

One of my own boys came in with the “Home” 
edition of the Star. We had our story, too, and it 
was a good one. 

Loretta Kaufman had retained Max Friedman of 
Fisher and Friedman to look out for her interests, 
and Friedman was a notorious attorney for trying 
his cases in the papers. He had begun this case by 
giving out a statement from his client that she in¬ 
tended to institute proceedings against a certain 
Revue dancer now married to a famous philanderer 



HEART BALM 229 

of Broadway for alienation of her husband's 
affections. 

“How's that?" I asked as I read. it. “There’s 
nothing actionable in that statement—but you know 
just as well as if Friedman had said it that it's 
Lorraine Sawtelle!" 

It was apparent that the insurance company 
ultimatum and her husband's attitude toward her 
had driven Loretta far in fighting back. She was 
desperate, striking back and striking first for her 
good name and her fortune. 

“This stage beauty," the statement went on, “is 
known to have squandered one man’s fortune. Now 
she wants the fortune of another girl’s man. 

“According to well credited rumor on Broadway, 
not only has she squandered her husband's fortune 
but plunged him into debt. There are, according 
to these rumors, notes for a considerable amount 
about to become due. 

“If she will do that with her own husband, I 
greatly fear she will do worse with another woman’s 
husband. My purpose in instituting this action is 
merely to safeguard my rights before that happens." 

Kennedy turned to Bullard, Loretta’s jazz escort 
and professional partner, about whose head un¬ 
doubtedly the storm from Kurt Kaufman would 
break next. 

“I have nothing to say," returned Bullard glibly, 
“under advice of counsel!" 

I drew Kennedy out in the hall and away from 
the others. My mind had been working quick. 
Flashed over me the innumerable campaigns the 
Star had conducted to warn foolish young million¬ 
aires who dissipated fortunes in a few weeks among 


230 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

the stage favorites of Broadway, revealing the 
secrets behind the scenes of how other silly young¬ 
sters of wealth had been entangled and ruined. 
Tommy Thomas’s sarcasm had been in the way of 
showing how the thing was sinking in. 

“I’m going to get Marshall deForest to do it for 
us, before anyone else thinks of it.” I hastily out¬ 
lined my plan to Kennedy. “Why, Craig, no matter 
what happens, even if he is guilty, it will be a big 
story for the Star. 

“Very well. It’s a good cover, anyhow. Let’s 
dig him up.” 

It was not very difficult to locate Marshall de- 
Forest and, as was to be expected, we found him 
in the Spectrum, an afternoon and all night jazz 
palace. Marshall was the center of attraction, even 
if he was known to be broke. He was enjoying a 
brief notoriety—before either the police or the 
sheriff got him, whichever w T ay it went—although 
in those circles it was no disgrace if one kept at least 
a couple of jumps ahead of either. 

I had only to broach the subject of writing his 
life story to deForest to have him leap at it. I could 
see that there was not even going to be an argument 
over compensation. For Marshall was not dis¬ 
posed, as far as Lorraine was concerned, to go into 
the discard quietly. There may not have been a 
chance to win her back by such a course as I pro¬ 
posed, and certainly his fortune was gone, irretriev¬ 
ably. But, lying back, I saw his idea. He might 
make it mighty uncomfortable for the illicit loves 
of Lorraine and Kaufman. 

“New York Nights!” he repeated the title I had 
tentatively suggested for his autobiography of a 


HEART BALM 


231 


moth. “That’s good. Why not call it 'Snippy 
Stories’? That’s the way I feel. To tell you the 
truth, I feel after my Broadway broadcasting like 
a little bean I saw in a movie on its trip from the 
pod to the puree. Now, I’m being canned! I was 
a sucker, I admit. * I deserve all I got. But I’m 
not out of the game—yet.” 

“What are you going to do—stay in New York, 
then?” asked Kennedy leading up to questioning 
about the notes. 

“I’d like to beat it like Waverly Wayne did. I 
used to think she was the only decent kid in the 
bunch. But she was like all the rest—waiting for 
the big main chance. It’s some Main Street we have 
here, eh? Say, do you think if I make it a good 
story, they’ll put it in the movies? I guess I’d be 
as good as some of those chaps.” 

“And make as much?” added Craig. “It might 
help if you could get renewals on the notes that Mrs. 
Kaufman’s lawyer says you have discounted. You 
might even pay them!” 

Marshall’s face fell. His was a mercurial dis¬ 
position. The notes, or our knowledge of them, sent 
him down to zero. I hastened to repair the damage, 
now that Kennedy had got the admission that there 
were notes and that they were considerable. 

“Yes, I think you’re better than a lot of the movie 
chaps. Make your story strong; then if you get it 
in the movies, I’ll put you in touch with a scenario 
writer who knows more than to get by with the 
censors, knows how to please them. If these cen¬ 
sors don’t look out, they won’t let anyone warn 
young men and young women any more of their 
dangers by telling stories such as yours properly. By 



232 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

the time they get through, these censors will make 
vice attractive by taking the sting out of it. Now 
don’t do that with those Star stories—see? Tell 
the whole truth about this new hokum.” 

“I will.” Marshall regarded us with the pert air 
of Broadway that knows it is wise. “You go see my 
storm and strife—get an idea of her, her life—that’s 
what I’m going to write about—the girls and the 
glitter I fell for, instead of the geometry and 
Greek!” 

There was anger and pique on the part of 
Marshall over the loss of his Lady Lorraine. But 
the real bitterness was over old Kaufman. I won¬ 
dered, incidentally, if that was to muddy up the 
water and hide his own nonchalant self. He was 
an easy loser. Was he too easy? 

Kennedy himself wanted to see Marshall’s “storm 
and strife.” When we reached the theatre the show 
girls were resting from their rehearsal and Lorraine 
was surrounded by a group of golden-haired gold- 
diggers, most sympathetic. 

Lorraine’s brown eyes were snapping. She had 
a paper unfolded and was shaking it indignantly. 
“Have you seen what they dared to say about me? 
I would like to have Loretta Kaufman here—I’d— 
I’d wallop her other eye! They think they’re clever, 
with their lawyers! Now I suppose Marsh thinks 
he has a case, too. Well, I’ll show them a poor show 
girl can get just as good legal advice as they can! 
I’ll get my sweetie to take me to the biggest attorney 
on Wall Street—that’s his speed!” 

As her voice rose strident, she spied Kennedy and 
me in the wings. The eternal feminine in her was 
always ready. She smiled. “You see? I’m all over 



HEART BALM 


233 


the paper! They’re giving me more advertising 
than I could buy if I owned this show. It must 
look pretty bad for Loretta-Kaufman if that’s the 
best she can do—hit me!” 

With a toss of her pretty head and a vindictive 
slender forefinger, she pointed to the paragraph 
about her propensity for going through other 
people’s fortunes. “Do you see that? Well, she’ll 
wait some time before she gets money out of Kurt 
Kaufman, after that!” 

It was evident the insurance company bomb about 
Bullard had started them all going. Lorraine had 
been struck at; she now countered and struck back 
at Loretta. Or was it also Lorraine’s only alibi, to 
fight back? 

“When did you see Waverly Wayne last?” asked 
Craig looking about at the girls in the pulchritude 
show. 

“Last night,” she muttered with a look of dis¬ 
gust. “She’s another one to go talking all over the 
place about Mr. Kaufman. Why, she says he even 
tried to be an ‘angel’ to her. Huh! He never 
thought of her seriously—after he saw me!” Her 
eyes opened wide as she warmed to her attack. 
“Say, you might like to know. When she didn’t 
show up here for rehearsal at one o’clock I took 
a taxi over to her apartment to get her. It isn’t 
far from the theatre. Before I could get out of the 
car, I saw Cliff Ryerson coming out of the apart¬ 
ment house with a suitcase marked “W. W. New 
York.” Well—you know Waverly’s initials—now— 
have they both skipped?” 


V 


\ 


THE DIAMOND FAKER 

We were leaving the Revue Theatre when Clews 
drew up in a taxicab. 

“My office has just got in touch with me,” he ex¬ 
plained, “and they wanted me to get you. Airs. 
Kaufman has been calling them up; wants to talk 
to you. You’d better call, if you don’t mind.” 

Clews waited a bit, but as Kennedy did not seem 
disposed to move in his presence, climbed back into 
the cab and directed his driver to take him back 
to the Classy Club. 

Not until then did Kennedy go into a pay sta¬ 
tion booth. Telephone booths may be sound-proof 
theoretically. However, I heard Kennedy through 
the closed door. “Very well, Airs. Kaufman. I will 
be right up. Yes, I will bring Air. Jameson.” 

“What’s up now?” I inquired. “If there wasn’t 
so much traffic on this street I wouldn’t have had 
to ask. I heard the last. What does she want of 
me? If these people would only stay single or stay 
married, there wouldn’t be so much trouble for 
detectives and newspapermen.” 

“She has had a threatening letter.” 

I couldn’t help but snap at that bait. “Let’s go! 
Before it’s carried out. What’s it about?” 

Kennedy smiled at my sudden change of front. 

234 


THE DIAMOND FAKER 235 

“I believe they've threatened to steal the rest of her 
jewels if she doesn’t shut up.” 

Fifi admitted us again and expressed even deeper 
anxiety over Mrs. Kaufman’s condition before she 
ushered us in. “Madame is not well, Mr. Ken¬ 
nedy,” she murmured in her musical, subdued voice 
as she took our hats and coats. “She wony—worry 
—all the time. Mr. Kaufman, he angry with her—• 
ever’body angry—I feel so sorry! She so weak, she' 
get the nurse. I am willing, oh, so willing to help— 
but she is so kind. She is afraid it be too much 
work for me—and I not know all that a nurse know r . 
She just lie all afternoon and cry—except when Mr. 
Bullard come to see her. She talk with him, but 
she no let the nurse leave room. She will see him 
not alone.” 

“Show us in then, please, Fifi. She expects us.” 

With a smile Fifi led us to Mrs. Kaufman’s room. 
I thought she looked worse than she had in the 
morning, but, seeing us, she sat up excitedly, in 
spite of the nurse’s protestations. 

“Very well, Miss MacIntyre,” she avoided, “just 
fix some pillows back of me—please—and stay in 
the room. I may need you. I am going to speak 
to Mr. Kennedy only about what you already have 
heard since I asked Dr. Schultz to send someone 
to me. So, it will be all right.” 

The last was to us, as she took a typewritten note 
out of a plain business envelope and passed it over 
to Craig. “It came only a little while after you left 
this forenoon. Fifi says that a messenger boy 
brought it and didn’t even ask to have it signed for. 
I called up the Insurance Company—and I told 
them they need not send that impossible Mr. Clew’s 



236 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

up here. Then they suggested you—and I said that 
would be all right, I hope I haven’t troubled you 
too much to come here. But it is important— 
to me.” 

With a negative nod of reassurance, Kennedy 
slowly read the note aloud to himself: 

“We have the diamonds. If you do not shut up, 
we’ll get the rest!” 

“No signature—no post mark—nothing to indi¬ 
cate where it came from,” considered Kennedy 
aloud. 

As for me I did not know what to make of it but 
wondered if after all it might be a fake threat which 
she had had sent to herself. 

“Is there anything about it that suggests anything 
to you?” Kennedy asked watching her face 
searchingly. 

“Not a thing,” she replied, I thought convincingly. 

As for me, I am always looking out for a pretty 
face. It is a habit. No one ever turns a newspaper 
page without a look if there is a pretty face on it. 
I like a pretty face to accompany a story. Some¬ 
one may read the story. The new nurse, Miss 
MacIntyre, had one of the prettiest faces I ever saw. 
A huge mass of auburn hair in great waves cropped 
out from under the stiff, formal white cap of her 
profession, skin white as snow, black eyebrows 
sweeping in a clean arch over beautiful blue eyes, 
red lips, and a profile that must have been the envy 
of all the would-be Pickfords in pictures. She moved 
deftly about the room, always on the watch for the 
comfort of her patient. I almost felt like letting 
Jiggs in on it so that he would know where to be 
sent the next time Maggie beaPhim up. 



THE DIAMOND FAKER 237 

“No, not a thing,” Loretta Kaufman repeated. 
“But this letter certainly must answer all the vile 
innuendoes of that Mr. Clewst I just know that 
with this threat I can get the insurance company to 
pay up. It has been an outrage the way people have 
suspected me and Mr. Bullard.” 

She watched Kennedy closely and the thought 
flashed through my mind that it might be that she 
had asked us here to seek information, quite as 
much as to give it. If that were the case, Kennedy 
did not tell her much. 

“Have you taken the proper precautions to guard 
your jewels that are left?” he asked. 

“Yes—I have! No one knows where they are— 
except myself. It would be difficult to find them. 
Even Mr. Kaufman does not know. I trust no 
one—absolutely! ” 

“Mrs. Kaufman, do you see Mr. Ryerson much?” 
asked Kennedy unexpectedly. 

She seemed slightly surprised and startled, but 
regained her poise immediately. “Why—no. He 
telephoned me once since I was hurt to ask how 
I was and if I had heard anything about the jewels— 
just the natural interest a young man working for 
my husband might show—and ordinary politeness 
that a lot of people don’t show!” 

Kennedy nodded. “I will let the company know 
about the threat. I cannot speak for them. But I 
will do my best in your behalf. . . . May I suggest 
that you obey Miss MacIntyre religiously and keep 
perfectly quiet? Worry will bring back nothing—and 
may start a lot of things!” 

It was late in the afternoon, and no one at the 
Kaufman works had seen Ryerson since lunch. 




238 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Kennedy had the young man’s address and we went 
there, scarcely expecting to find him. He w r as in, 
however, and did not seem surprised to see us. 

“I suppose you think that you can ask me any¬ 
thing,” he frowned, “after what Mr. Kaufman 
directed!” He was nervous and ill at ease. “Well, 
go ahead—maybe I will answer—maybe I won’t.” 

“I’ve been told you were seen this noon down at 
the apartment of Waverly Wayne,” hazarded 
Kennedy. 

Ryerson was defiant. “That’s one I won’t an¬ 
swer. I don’t have to. I may get in contempt of 
court—but I’m damned if I care whether I’m in con¬ 
tempt of Kennedy—or Kaufman, either!” He 
paused, considering whether he might have gone 
too far, then seemed to feel that he had. His next 
remark was rather ingratiating. “Say, Kaufman 
told me to talk to you. I’m ready to talk!” 

Kennedy did not interrupt him, and Ryerson 
rattled on as if it were a current and a dam had 
broken. “I don’t suppose you know. Only a few 
insiders, brokers, do know. Did you know that 
Kaufman was getting ready to take a plunge in 
Wall Street, in fact has been doing it in a quiet 
way, only now is framing a way to get the public 
in?” 

Kennedy professed to be all interest and Ryerson 
went on. “He is seeking to promote his company, 
the reorganized company, by promises of fabulous 
wealth that he can make for it by his control of the 
diamond markets of the world!” 

We did not need to pretend interest in a thing 
as vast as that, under the circumstances. 

Ryerson’s eyes narrowed and he leaned forward, 


THE DIAMOND FAKER 


239 


speaking in a low voice. “It is all a fake—Kauf¬ 
man process diamonds!” He paused. “I know 
where his process falls down—and I alone know!” 

“And do you know'-” returned Kennedy when 

Ryerson interrupted. 

“Listen! Kaufman is already broke. The under¬ 
writers have got everything he had left after his 
other Wall Street fliers. He is really broke in his 
promotion before he starts . . . and the promotion 
campaign itself is based on a fake. Draw your own 
conclusions. I have told Mrs. Kaufman, too. She 
ought to know.” 

“Is that why she retained an attorney?” 

“I can’t say a word—not a word more,” answered 
Ryerson darkly. “But a word to a man like you 
ought to be sufficient.” 

As we left Ryerson, my mind was quickly build¬ 
ing up an astounding new suspicion—Kurt 
Kaufman! 

I asked myself, Why should he steal his own wife’s 
gems? The theory that came glibly to my mind was 
equally astounding. Kurt Kaufman knew that they 
w'ere insured, had seen that they were insured last 
September, and that she could not lose. He knew 
that he could sell them as manufactured by his own 
process. He was his own best “fence”! 

Lorraine had always boasted, like other Revue 
girls, that some day she would hook a big fish. 
Kaufman, poor fish, was the “angel” for Lorraine. 
Wall Street was breaking, had broken him. But 
he had to go on. To go on he must manufacture 
diamonds. To manufacture diamonds he would 
have to get them—to steal them! To steal them 
he had to have a gang and furnish the gang with an 




240 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


opportunity. So, had he framed “Bull” Bullard, 
jazz escort of his wife, of whom he was naturally 
jealous? 

I could not resist trying it on Kennedy. His 
reaction was puzzling. I could make nothing of 
his reticence. Then, I thought I caught it. I re¬ 
called what Ryerson had said: “I know where his 
process falls down—and I alone know!” 

If there was diamond faking, why rule him out? 
Did not everything that applied to diamond faking, 
apply with equal force to Cliff Ryerson? 


VI 


BLACKLEGS AND BOOTLEGGERS 

Either way in the possible diamond faking— 
Kaufman himself or Ryerson—there was still one 
question that must be answered, and if it were 
answered would tell the story. Who were the gang¬ 
sters who actually pulled the million dollar diamond 
robbery off? 

Kennedy returned, as we all did periodically, no 
matter what our promising leads, to the Classy Club. 
It seemed that I was not alone in my reasoning. 
In fact, it was so obvious that no one could be 
alone in it. 

We found the police at the Classy Club and in 
the rooms over it going into the seamy side of the 
life of every habitue of the cabaret downstairs and 
the tenants upstairs—and most of all in regard to 
De Angeles and Ostroff, not a trace of whom had 
been unearthed. There was only one thing, in police 
estimation, to do and that was to search out the 
underworld clues to De Angeles and Ostroff—gun¬ 
men, bootleggers, and blacklegs. 

All day they had been rounding up the customers 
of these bootleggers, hootch-hunting on the White 
Way. When we arrived they had just had Bullard 
and Oscar Rasche on the rack and again the little 
jazz escort and his pal, the female impersonator, had 

241 


242 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


been grilled until it seemed that their private lives 
must have been turned inside out. 

Now they had started on poor Jukes and between 
the police and his two smart young masters on the 
other side, Jukes was having a terrible time of it, 
tangling himself up in his broad “A’s” and dropped 
“H’s” until he didn’t feel quite sure whether he was 
on Land’s End or John o’Groat’s. 

In an unguarded moment one of O’Connor’s men 
had made Jukes admit that he had heard his two 
neighbors below say that they were dealing with 
some rum-runners down the Jersey coast and that 
whatever other bootleggers might say or do, their 
stuff was all right and as the label represented. The 
labels were discolored by bilge water in the 
schooner’s hold; one of the mustiest of bootleg alibis 
for just plain dirty water on counterfeit paper. 

O’Connor’s man, Frayne, was elated. “There,” he 
muttered aside to us, taking Kennedy in, for old 
times’ sake, “it may be that they got away that way, 
eh? We have every ship watched. The alarm has 
gone to every city. The railroads are watched. A 
rum-runner would be the safest secret get-away, 
understand? Run rum in. Run stolen jewels out!” 

“That is, supposing the jewels have been taken 
from the country,” commented Craig. 

“Well—what about this De Angeles and Ostroff?” 

Kennedy nodded. “It’s a good theory, but it 
doesn’t catch any master mind that conceived the 
plot.” 

“The confounded little cockney!” Frayne with 
difficulty restrained venting the seven hundred years 
of Ireland’s wrongs in one fell moment on little 
Jukes. “We’re not through with you—you little 


BLACKLEGS AND BOOTLEGGERS 243 

cheese-head!” he blustered. “Just think it over— 
and the next time I ask you a question untangle that 
tongue and get the blubber out of that ivory dome of 
yours! ” 

Jukes just stared and muttered, “Yes, sir. I’ll try, 
sir.” Beyond the disparaging remarks on his na¬ 
tivity he was innocent of understanding Frayne’s 
mixed slang, without some sort of Rosetta stone 
that has not been invented yet. 

The grilling let up, at least temporarily, with the 
appearance of O’Connor himself. O’Connor selected 
a private dining room, called Frayne into conference, 
and clapped Craig on the back with a familiarity 
that made Kennedy’s reputation with every em¬ 
ploye of the Classy Club who didn’t already read 
the Star. 

“Now,” began O’Connor, when he was sure that 
we were alone, “I have dug up one thing, Kennedy, 
that I think is very important and I’m going to let 
you in on it—on the usual conditions that apply 
to Jameson, here—get me?—pens lifted. I’ve had 
my men going rather closely over the wide swath 
that this gay young Marshall deForest cut through 
the Tenderloin in the last thirty or sixty days. We 
find that Marshall deForest has gone into a boot¬ 
leg proposition to buy the whole cargo of a rum 
runner from Nassau. To cover it he had to discount 
his notes and it was done at the Maritime Trust 
at the time when he had most of his money still 
there. These notes are due on the fifteenth.” 

“But has that any connection with these guys 
De Angeles and Ostroff?” asked Frayne, rather 
eagerly, lest his own work go for naught. 

“I think it has; you bet it has—De Angeles and 


244 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Ostroff and the show girls—of course it has. They 
were very popular with show girls. Anybody with 
liquor and looks is, these days. Besides, the girls 
get a percentage on sales to the customers they bring 
in. And if they make sales themselves—well, then 
there’s more in it for them.” 

“What girls? Do you know?” I asked. 

O’Connor rolled his cigar over to the corner of 
his mouth. “Lorraine Sawtelle was one.” 

“Any sales?” I hazarded. 

“One large one to Kaufman himself. The stuff 
was delivered over at his works.” 

“So, our friend Marshall, with his own dear storm 
and strife, has figured in marketing one whole cargo 
of a rum runner. I guess I’m bad! That’s another 
story he must tell for the Star or get docked! He’s 
my employe, now, you know.” 

“Well, look out you don’t get a lot of hooey.” 

“I’ll see to that. I expect to re-write his stuff 
myself.” 

“There are a couple of others, Frayne, know 
them?” pursued O’Connor. “Agatha Maurer and 
Opal Perot. Now, it’s my theory that there was 
one, possibly a couple or more agents of the gang 
to ascertain the habits and financial standing of 
possible victims.” 

Frayne was quite excited. “Same as that Potter 
thousand dollar stick-up at the New Year’s Eve 
party—I’ll bet it’s the same gang!” 

As we talked it over, I thought that I knew al¬ 
ready something of Broadway blacklegs. But I 
found that the blackest legs were the visible female 
legs, that women were the most immune of boot¬ 
leggers, as well as the most successful sales force. 


BLACKLEGS AND BOOTLEGGERS 245 

They got the price, the highest price. Barnum had 
been right. We like our great American Boulevard 
of Bunk. 

It was after dinner time when we broke up and 
Clews outside imparted the discovery that after the 
rehearsal he had trailed Lorraine and she had met 
Bullard in a Broadway resort. His judgment was 
that she was trying to vamp him away from Loretta 
Kaufman and that Bullard didn’t vamp for a cent. 
It was Clews’ theory that Bullard had letters from 
Loretta Kaufman, something that might be invalu¬ 
able to Kurt Kaufman in fighting back against his 
wife’s threatened proceedings. 

Our store of perplexing information was further 
increased by learning that while we had been 
closeted with O’Connor and Frayne there had been 
a visitor in the Bullard apartment above us, the 
nurse, Miss MacIntyre. Bullard had been out. She 
had seen Rasche, but had waited only a little while, 
as it was not certain when Bullard would return. 
Rasche himself was gone, now. 

In the apartment Kennedy looked around hastily, 
with O’Connor. He peered into the fireplace where 
a fire of cannel coal had been flickering when we 
were there. The coals were dead now. On top of 
them was a charred paper. 

Kennedy lifted out the whole cast-iron grate into 
the light and bent over it, careful not to disturb the 
charred paper. 

“Can you make that out, Walter?” he asked. 

I followed as he traced with his pencil, still not 
touching the brittle charred paper. 

“Burn Those Letters 


246 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


To whom was it? To Bullard? From whom? 
Loretta Kaufman? 

Kennedy shoved the grate back. “I don’t see any 
more charred paper—here. Maybe the message 
miscarried.” He thought a moment, then bent over 
a table and wrote. Finally he handed the paper 
to me. “There’s a statement I want given out to 
the press, Walter. Will you see that everybody 
gets it?” 

I read: 

“There is no question that the robbery was the climax of 
a cunningly hatched plot of many weeks’ standing. Many 
elements of similarity with the Potter robbery on New Year’s 
Eve appeal to the police. I am particularly anxious to 
question a woman who has communicated with me anony¬ 
mously. I want her to communicate with me directly and 
I will prevent disclosure of her identity.” 

“Who is she?” I rallied Craig. “A myth?” 

“No; she’s clever. You don’t know. And I have 
promised to respect her secrecy, have I not? Just 
give that out. Try it on.” 

Directed by O’Connor, Craig and I for a hasty 
dinner made another little side excursion into the 
world of bootleg. We saw one “pinch” made by the 
famous Izzy Stein of the prohibition enforcement 
office and then had a chance to talk to the famous 
Izzy. 

“I haven’t been up there to the Classy Club my¬ 
self,” confided Izzy as he headed back to Broadway. 
“They all know me. You better not be seen with 
me, either. But my agents have been all through 
that place. They haven’t got anything but affi¬ 
davits from outsiders. There’s something there, 


BLACKLEGS AND BOOTLEGGERS 247 


though, in a secret room, or under the floor, or on 
the roof, or somewhere. They can't take it out. 
And how was the Classy Club serving it, until this 
thing came up last night? Don’t be surprised if 
you see us go through the place during the night-— 
and w T hat I get is at the disposal of you fellows, 
provided I get what I want—you know, Jameson— 
the big guy likes his picture in the papers. It looks 
well in Washington!” 


VII 


THE ARSONETTE 

It was a fair enough offer of Stein and his enforce¬ 
ment agents. We had no authority to search, and 
with a warrant based on their quietly collected 
affidavits they had. We waited. 

It must have been shortly after midnight w r hen 
all was in full swing at the Classy Club with the 
after-theatre parties in full blast coaxed along by 
the jazz band but with the lid absolutely clamped 
on the activities of the waiters with liquor from 
their hidden source. 

There was no fuss about it. Izzy Stein and his 
agents just simply walked into the place and took 
charge of it and we followed. It was the most polite 
raid I had ever seen. Everybody from the manager 
down to a majority of the guests knew the famous 
Izzy. There was consternation, a quick scurry by 
some few hip flask toters, and everybody seemed to 
be on their feet waiting for what would happen next 
as if it were the climax of a show. It was one of 
the spectacular additions to entertainment that the 
government pays for, a thing to talk about after¬ 
ward, and increase the smartness of a habit that 
misguided reformers had dragged back from being 
considered by the public as falling into disrepute 
“Fire!” 

The shrill cry in a British accent was the only 

248 


\ 


THE ARSONETTE 


249 


thing that could deprive the redoubtable Izzy from 
holding the center of the stage which he loved. 
There was a crowding and shuffling as Jukes, scared 
white, rushed down from the second floor, a small 
battered bucket in his hand. Already there was a 
penetrating odor of wood smoke in the air. Women 
stampeded for their wraps, men for the doors. 

Breathless Jukes told his tale. He had been carry¬ 
ing down a bucket of garbage from the kitchenette 
of Bullard and Rasche, over which he presided for 
the purpose of getting breakfast in their rooms for 
his two young masters. He had emptied the bucket 
for the night collection of garbage and waste, 
stopped to talk with the cook in the basement of 
the Classy Club and then as he mounted from the 
second to the third floors, returning to his place on 
the fourth, he had almost got caught in the back 
draught of fire on the third. Mr. Bullard and Mr. 
Rasche were both out. 

It seemed an incredibly short space of time when 
from every direction, as we gathered outside, we 
could hear the clanging of bells and the shrilling 
of sirens as New York’s amazing fire apparatus be¬ 
gan concentrating. I question whether the change 
from horses to motors has taken a thing away from 
the spectacular side of a fire. Certainly not to one 
who appreciates the stupendous power and appal¬ 
ling efficiency of what man’s mind and hand have 
invented. 

Each engine pulled up at its allotted hydrant for 
such an alarm. It was like a great war game. Every 
move had been plotted and planned by fire strate¬ 
gists even down to the hydrants that the engines 
should take. 


250 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Already the top two floors were aflame and glow¬ 
ing through the windows. In the rear glass must 
have been bulging and cracking, and the flames 
licking upward and shooting out in long streamers. 
Hose was coupled in an instant, the water on, and 
limp rubber and canvas became as rigid as a post 
with the high pressure of the water being forced 
through it. Company after company dashed up, 
urged on by hoarse orders from the battalion chief. 
But there was no unnecessary fluster, no hesita¬ 
tion. Everything moved as if by the clock. For 
that is the way with New York fire-fighters. They 
go straight to the heart of the fire. 

Now and then a stream from a hose spat out of 
a window. About the ground floors the red- 
helmeted salvage corps were busy covering up what 
they could of the furniture and fittings with rubber 
sheets to protect them from water, so sure were they 
of what the fighters would do. It is just this sharp, 
scientific attack that nips what might any day be 
a historic conflagration. 

A fire in the daytime is spectacular. But at night 
it is fearful and wonderful. All around I heard, 
“Is everybody out? Is everyone safe?” A huge red 
flame shot up from the back and revealed the inferno 
that must be within. 

Just as it seemed that all the guests and tenants 
must be safe and we had settled back to watching 
and admiring the desperate winning fight of the 
men, there came a cry from the horrified crowd 
about us. 

“A man at the window in front on the top floor!” 

“Get him!” shrieked a woman shrilly. “Get 
him!” 


THE ARSONETTE 


251 


A ladder was shot up even before the shouts were 
stilled and “Smoky Jim” Watson, hero of the depart¬ 
ment, was up it like a man-monkey. It was breath¬ 
less. It could have been only a few seconds after 
he leaped in, but it seemed an hour, before he ap¬ 
peared with a limp form of a man over his shoulders 
in the regulation way. He was out safely with his 
burden and down to the street amid a shout. 

Kennedy and I hurried up to see who it was, to 
help if possible. Craig started in surprise, and I 
looked again to make sure. Before either of us 
could say a word a woman rushed past. 

“Oh, my God! It's Kurt—Kurt—my husband!” 

Kennedy caught Loretta Kaufman as she toppled 
and I helped get her to a taxi. The vivid redness 
of her heavy lined velvet evening cape made her 
face seem whiter than ever. I wondered at the mess 
of some people’s lives. Here was wealth—the red 
cape alone cost more than many people have to sup¬ 
port a whole happy family for a year—here was 
wealth and unhappiness. 

As a newspaper story I saw the short item 
“Uptown Cabaret Wiped Out by Fire.” The 
item; perhaps: “Fire in the building occupied by 
the Classy Club at . . . West Fifty-Sixth Street 
routed out scores of theatrical people from their 
beds in neighboring houses and caused a damage of 
$60,000. A smouldering cigarette is believed to have , 
caused the blaze. The flames spread so rapidly that 
a second alarm was turned in. The roof of the build¬ 
ing crashed and several firemen narrowly escaped 
injury. More than two thousand people were at¬ 
tracted by the blaze in the middle of the night, as 


252 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


those in adjoining houses fled, wading in icy water, 
until the fire was under control.” 

But to me the excitement of the situation ap¬ 
pealed. It was not only the fire-fighters and their 
amazing apparatus. But here were O’Connor and 
Frayne and their detectives, to say nothing of a 
couple of fellows from the District Attorney’s office 
and ourselves. Added to that had come Izzy Stein 
and his booze raiders. Then there were the re¬ 
serves, establishing fire lines. Now I heard the clang 
of an ambulance. A great show for the gaping two 
thousand! 

At the height of the excitement I heard a fracas, 
loud voices along the Broadway end of the fire line. 
Two men from a taxi seemed to be in an argument 
with a burly policeman. 

“But I tell you, I live there!” 

“I’ll have your things sent out to you!” growled 
the policeman, weary of excuses, but with a grim 
humor. 

Kennedy and I were over. It was Bullard and 
Rasche. We got them through. I thought, though, 
that they had seemed rather ostentatious about it 
all, for I am sure that with less bossing and more 
politeness they would have had no trouble. How¬ 
ever, it was not their way. Did they not own the 
Boulevard of Bunk? I wondered, as Rasche 
trooped long with his suitcase, if it had all been to 
establish an alibi. 

The fire was now practically out as any self- 
respecting fire should have been, after the tons of 
water that had been hurled on it. Besides, I thought 
whimsically, it must have accomplished its purpose, 
whatever that was. 


253 


THE ARSONETTE 

As we were permitted at last to make our way in 
to see what had been left, we found that we had 
been preceded by Jukes, faithful to the last, search¬ 
ing in the ruins for the property of his young 
masters. 

“I’ve got my costumes for the Revue in this grip 
to go to the cleaner’s/’ growled Rasche. “Glad they 
weren’t in this mess!” 

In the ruined rear room of the third floor we found 
that it had been a big bedroom with an alcove. The 
hall door to the alcove had no handle and was locked. 
Inside I saw the reason. Where the doorway had 
been a big mirror had been placed, now smashed. 

“Seven years of bad luck for some bally blighter!” 
exclaimed Jukes with his dry humor. “And ’e don’t 
even know it!” 

Kennedy looked in. In the space between the 
mirror and the locked, handle-less door were several 
bottles broken with the heat and contents gone. 
There was also a mass of correspondence—burned 
to a crisp. It had been a bootleg retail cache! 

As we looked at the ruin, I fancied that Marshall 
deForest, who had been about with the rest, looked 
rather pleased at the wreck. 

Now stories of the guests and servants began to 
be gossiped about as the excitement of the fire 
waned. The one most often repeated was of a girl, 
before the fire, a girl in a red cape, with a suitcase. 
It had point when Kennedy discovered at the back 
of the second floor unmistakable work of a firebug, 
where the draft would carry the fire surest upward 
and quick. 

“I saw Cliff Ryerson here—not three minutes be- 


254 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


fore the fire/’ volunteered Marshall then. “I 
thought he had been down to the kitchen.” 

“Down to the kitchen?” I queried incredulously. 

“Yes—he was carrying a loaf of bread.” 

“Oh,” I exclaimed. “Get out! A loaf of bread! 
Say, Marshall, this is serious business. If you’re 
going to write that way-” 

“I tell you I saw him beat it, carrying a loaf of 
bread!” 

Kennedy was busy fixing both the fact that it 
had been an actual case of arson and endeavoring 
to run down the reports of the arsonette. 

To me the next question was, Who was the Red 
Lady? 



VIII 


THE RED LADY 

The small boy in me stirred at the Clang! Clang! 
of an ambulance, hurrying up and nosing through 
the crowd. I had them all—fire-engines, cops, and 
the ambulance! 

I turned quickly and gaped. The crowd scattered 
and the policeman pushed them back. The young 
doctor jumped down and in a few seconds Kurt 
Kaufman was receiving the necessary aid. It was 
not long before he was himself, but very reticent. 

When Kennedy asked him why he had been up 
there in Bullard's apartment, Kaufman refused to 
answer. In fact, he was curt. 

Just then Fifi darted out of the crowd and up to 
the cab where Mrs. Kaufman was leaning back, 
exhausted. 

“Oh, Madame—but you shouldn’t have gone out! 
What will Miss MacIntyre say? Oh, Madame!” 

Fifi busied herself making Loretta Kaufman as 
comfortable as possible, patting her all over as if she 
might have been herself in the fire and have some 
broken bones or strained muscles. I did not w r onder 
at Fifi’s concern. In spite of orders from Dr. 
Schultz and the nurse, who must have been off duty 
for the night, Loretta, her head still bandaged but 
concealed as best it could be under the turban-like 
hat, had got out of her sick bed. She was here in 

255 


256 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

the excitement—and, now I realized, wearing a red 
cape! 

I had but a moment to speculate on that. I heard 
the strident tooting of a foreign automobile horn. 
A car nosed in, without stopping. They couldn’t 
help but make way for it or be run down. I imagine 
I thought like the rest of the crowd—someone who 
owned the property must have rushed right down 
to the fire on hearing the news. 

As the car stopped, the people gathered around in 
spite of the policeman. Curiosity craned many 
necks. 

It was more than my humor could stand. I saw 
portly, dignified John Stewart Stillwell, the lumber 
king, richer than Rockefeller, helping the dainty and 
radiant Lorraine from his big gray Sunbeam. 

As she stepped out, her evening cape of volu¬ 
minous folds of white ermine parted at the neck and 
revealed a huge string of wonderful pearls. Her 
eyes sparkled as she saw us. Yet she was all dignity 
and hauteur. The look that flashed from her eyes 
seemed to mock us all. Advertising pays. 

“Is anybody hurt?” she asked in a slightly bored 
tone. 

Kennedy answered grimly. “Only Kurt Kaufman 
overcome.” 

A scornful smile passed over her face. “I wonder 
why he was here?” Then, to the lumber king, 
“Isn’t he the man you told me about being broke and 
trying to get some money out of your enterprises to 
float a new scheme? How very foolish—and 
ordinary!” 

She put her little slim hand on Stillwell’s arm 
and looked so babyish and helpless in his eyes that 


THE RED LADY 


257 


immediately he became the protector of a little, 
confiding beauty among so many beasts. Lorraine 
was a far-sighted lass. 

Marshall deForest just stood in wonder and be¬ 
wilderment, watching her. “My wife’s a fast 
worker!” I heard him mutter. “My money—poor 
old Kaufman’s—has landed her a guy who is so rich 
he can’t go broke—even with her!” 

Still Kennedy’s failure to be impressed by any¬ 
thing or anybody or to turn aside from the one 
matter in his bulldog brain brought back to me the 
one query: Who was the Red Lady? 

I could think only of Loretta Kaufman, until I 
heard one of the crowd: “Ain’t she wonderful? 
Llave yer seen her in that Red Riding Hood scene 
in the Revue?” 

Then I recalled. In that scene they all had red 
capes. I drew Kennedy aside. He knew it, al¬ 
though we hadn’t seen this year’s Revelry. 

“Lorraine—Waver ly-—besides Mrs. Kaufman’s 
own red cape,” I whispered excitedly. 

“What about Rasche?” 

“Oh, yes—Rasche, too. All but the wolf!” I 
glanced over at the suitcase. Could the red cape of 
the notorious female impersonator be in it, ready 
to go to the cleaner’s? 

A thousand speculations jostled through my mind 
as I thought of the Red Lady. Who was the anony¬ 
mous girl who attempted to communicate with Ken¬ 
nedy and whom he wanted to see? Why? 

Just then a messenger hunting about was directed 
over to Kennedy by O’Connor. They spoke aside a 
moment in an undertone, then Kennedy waved 
O’Connor over and in a loud voice remarked, “My 




258 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

scout posted down at Cliff Ryerson’s apartment has 
sent up word that he saw Waverly Wayne go into 
the apartment with a grip—and that that insurance 
detective Clews is hanging about there, too. He’ll 
keep her—them both—there till I come.” 

Kennedy looked about at the patrol wagon that 
had brought the reserves almost as soon as the fire 
apparatus had arrived; then he looked at the 
ambulance. 

“They’re the only things around here that will 
hold us all,” he smiled grimly, “unless we com¬ 
mandeer one of those Fifth Avenue buses that go 
through Fifty-seventh street.” He paused a mo¬ 
ment, then added, “O’Connor, can you lend me your 
patrol wagon? It’s got the ‘Vacant’ sign on it! I’ll 
pay the tariff. What do you charge for the first 
half mile—and waiting time?” 

Kennedy was always an enigma to O’Connor. 
But O’Connor knew better than to stand in the way 
of certain success. He nodded to take the wagon, 
even went over and spoke to the ambulance driver. 

With O’Connor’s burly authority, Kennedy piled 
them all in—Kaufman in the ambulance, already, 
with me, and then to my utter delight, Lorraine 
Sawtelle—after a quick snappy argument with her 
radiant friend of the Sunbeam. 

“What a gross indignity!” she snapped as Ken¬ 
nedy assisted her up the steps, and she realized that 
old Kaufman was to be her companion. 

Above the law in making his fortune, John 
Stewart Stillwell was behind the law when Kennedy 
took matters on, trailing along in his Sunbeam, 
sputtering, speechless. 

In the patrol wagon with O’Connor Craig took 




THE RED LADY 


259 


with him Bullard and Rasche and Jukes, Loretta 
Kaufman, and the now indignant Fifi, all the lesser 
fry. I felt that I was highly honored as a conductor. 

Our strange cavalcade in the middle of the night 
knowing no speed or traffic regulations came at last 
to Ryerson’s apartment in Madison Square. 

We found Clews, impatient, in an argument with 
Waverly Wayne, and both arguing with Kennedy’s 
outpost who had sent the messenger and then had 
been forced to intervene before either of them could 
leave. 

In the apartment of Ryerson in bags and grips 
were nearly all of Waverly’s things, even the grip 
that Lorraine had seen Cliff take out when she had 
scurried around to Waverly’s that noon. 

There was one grip, however, that was not Wa¬ 
verly’s and it was over this that Waverly and Clews 
argued. 

Kennedy minced no words. He turned the grip 
up-end. On it were the initials of Loretta 
Kaufman! 

He forced it open. 

To our amazed vision were disclosed, folded in 
some delicate mulberry underthings, Mrs. Kaufman’s 
emeralds—jewels that must have represented the 
glittering remainder of the bauble fortune that had 
delighted Loretta! 

Loretta Kaufman fairly screamed. Clews uttered 
the monosyllables, with a smirk, “Ah-ha!” 

As for me, I could not but recall the threat to clean 
out Mrs. Kaufman of the rest of her invaluable 
gems. I wondered. Had the fire been set to divert 
attention of everybody from her apartment, or 
whatever hiding place she had chosen, while the 


260 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


master mind and the gang cleaned out the rest of her 
jewels? 

As Waverly shut up like a mute before Clews, 
Kennedy alone could extract a word from her. 

“Let Cliff Ryerson explain!” was all she would 
say. 

The telephone rang and Kennedy answered it. 
With a nod to O’Connor to hold everyone just as 
they were, he dashed out of the door and we heard 
the rat-tat-tat of the patrol gong as the wagon shot 
away. 

In an incredibly few minutes Craig was back, 
flinging the door open as he ushered in Cliff 
Ryerson. 

“I established a guard over Waverly Wayne’s 
apartment, too,” he announced. “I found Mr. Ryer¬ 
son, there, waiting.” 

Under his arm, Craig had an almost whole loaf of 
bread. Over a library table he began digging at the 
soft center, where a part of the bottom crust seemed 
caved in. 

His eyes twinkled as mine bulged. 

“Waiting,” he added, “with the jewels of the 
million dollar diamond hold-up hidden inside a loaf 
of stale bread!” 

I gasped. Were Waverly and Cliff the master 
minds? 

“Now, folks,” shot out Kennedy, “do you want 
me to tell you what happened—or will you tell?” 


IX 


THE ANONYMOUS GIRL 

No one spoke. I could hear O’Connor’s heavy 
breathing. 

“Well, Jukes!” exclaimed Craig, “you cast your 
bread upon the waters and it returns to Mrs. Kauf¬ 
man, after—not many hours, eh?—in spite of your 
friend Fifi!” 

Jukes was sullen. He looked about under his 
lowered forehead. There was no escape. Fifi was 
stunned. 

I saw it, now, at a glance. Ryerson had recovered 
the stolen diamonds; Waverly had saved the rest of 
the Kaufman gems from being stolen. 

“How did you know they were in the loaf of 
bread?” I asked, amazed. 

“Waverly found out from a note in Fifi’s room— 
and telephoned me.” 

“Waverly?” 

Then I saw a Titian wig in the suitcase and 
noticed the changed color of Waverly’s eyebrows. 
The nurse, Miss MacIntyre, was Waverly Wayne, 
the anonymous girl. 

“I knew I was suspected—Cliff was suspected,” 
she shot back at Clews, discomfited. “The best 
answer was to get the stuff back myself—ourselves!” 

Waverly had gone to the aid of the enemy of her 

261 


262 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


bitterest enemy, Lorraine Sawtelle, and had saved 
the rest of Loretta’s gems. 

Then I saw that Kurt Kaufman had gone to Bul¬ 
lard’s to bully or bribe Jukes and get the letters, had 
not seen Jukes, as that international crook was get¬ 
ting the gems out in the only way that would not be 
searched from the most unlikely place in the world 
to hide them, had searched for his wife’s letters, and 
had been overcome in the sudden incendiary blaze. 
The fire had been not to destroy Mrs. Kaufman’s 
letters to Bullard. It had been to destroy whatever 
bootleg evidence on Jukes and Fifi and their gang 
might fall into the hands of Izzy and us. The plot 
actually to divert attention while they cleaned up 
the rest of the Kaufman jewels had been forestalled 
by Waverly, who had gone to the Classy Club too 
late even to see Cliff Ryerson, who broke in on Jukes 
at the exact right moment and beat it. 

“Loretta!” 

“What, Kurt?” 

“We’re a couple of damn fools—victims of the 
Boulevard of Bunk! . . . Will you forgive . . . and 
forget. . . .” 

“Will you?” 

“I thought you said to meet me at your apart¬ 
ment, Waverly,” I heard Cliff whisper. 

“No, I said your apartment, Cliff.” 

“Well—there won’t be any mistakes like that in 
the future. It will be our apartment!” 



The 

Soul Merchant 












». 4 


* 


\ 






THE SOUL MERCHANT 


I 

HELD FOR RANSOM 

“Whatever the crime-master can devise, the 
crime-maker can circumvent. It is a race. The 
only way to win it is to be a fifth of a second ahead 
of the other fellow to the tape.” 

Kennedy was carefully winding a coil of copper 
wire and insulating it with some grayish substance 
between the coils of wire. He paused as he waited 
for the layer of the grayish paste to harden. 

“Take the burglar alarms,” he went on. “A scien¬ 
tific criminal can circumvent them all as fast as they 
are invented. Here’s one that they’ll circumvent— 
but not until they study it. It’s a selenium cell.” 

“What is selenium?” I inquired vaguely. The 
name was familiar, but such facts do not always 
stick in my mind. 

“A very curious element.” He took down a jar 
from the shelf over his head and placed it on the 
table. From the jar he took a bit of the same gray¬ 
ish substance he had been using on the coil and 
turned to show me. “Under light it is a good con¬ 
ductor of electricity. In darkness, it is not; it is an 
insulator. ... Now somewhere, some time a burg¬ 
lar must use light-” 


265 



266 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


A shot rang out in the hall. At the same instant 
there was a crash as a bullet pierced the door. The 
jar which Kennedy had placed on the table back of 
him was shattered into slivers of glass. 

The next moment the laboratory door flew open, 
before we could even recover from the momentary 
start, and a man, a rather distinguished man, his 
coat and collar awry, his hat off, his hair rumpled, 
his face dazed, uncertain, almost fell in in a crouch¬ 
ing position. 

“My God!” he gasped. “I hardly had my hand 
on the knob when it happened!” 

A glance was enough to assure Craig as the man 
straightened up that he was unhurt except for the 
shock. Kennedy was out into the hall and down the 
short flight of stairs to the front door of the Chemis¬ 
try Building. There was no one in the hall, no one 
on the campus. The attacker had disappeared as if 
the air had swallowed him. Pursuit was useless; 
there was no one to pursue. 

As Craig turned back to the laboratory door, on 
the other side of which our informal visitor stuck, 
he paused to examine the clean-cut bullet hole. 

“I’m Commissioner Hunter, in charge of the State 
Narcotic Commission, created the first of the year,” 
jerked out the visitor. “They followed me here!” 

“They seem to have been ahead of you, here,” 
corrected Craig, with a glance up the stone and iron 
steps to the next floor, “waiting up those stairs! 
The direction of this bullet was from above—not on 
the level or below. You must have caught some 
warning from the corner of your eye and ducked. 
That’s what saved you.” 

It was some minutes before Commissioner Hunter 



HELD FOR RANSOM 


267 


could talk connectedly. I was uncomfortably 
shaken myself and the attack had not been aimed at 
me. When I am frightened I talk. Somehow the 
sound of my own voice steadies me. I was rattling 
away to Kennedy, who had come back to clean up 
the slivered glass and salvage his precious selenium. 

“Take your time, Hunter. Get yourself to¬ 
gether.” I marveled at Craig’s imperturbability. 

Hunter mopped his forehead. But the more he 
regained his poise, the more terrifically worried he 
seemed. “Kennedy,” he exclaimed, “nothing mat¬ 
ters to me—except one thing. I need your help 
more than any other man in New York. My God, 
advise me what to do.” 

I thought the man had gone crazy. This did not 
seem like old “Lonehand” Hunter, whom the re¬ 
porters knew when they had gone to interview him 
in the years when as a private citizen, before the 
state had acted in alarm, he had with limited private 
resources lobbied and fought against drugs. A jaw 
that was prominent, lips that met in a straight, de¬ 
termined line, iron gray hair, short and bristly, black, 
heavy eyebrows surmounting eyes as steel-blue as a 
gun—who and what could bring such a man to this 
state? It was not that shot, I thought; it was some¬ 
thing more awful. 

He strode over to Kennedy and clutched his arm. 
I could see that he didn’t know how r hard he was 
gripping. Kennedy put his hand out on Hunter’s 
shoulder. “Steady, old man! Don’t waste time!” 

“She’s gone!” said Hunter, huskily, straightening 
up. “My Maybeth—my little girl—five years old! ” 

I startled at that, too. “I hope that gang after 
you haven’t kidnapped her!” 



268 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


He nodded as the words stuck. Kennedy bent 
forward. He was ready for the fight. The mere 
suggestion of a child’s hazardous plight was enough 
to kindle all his fire in a case. 

“When did it happen? How was she carried off? 
Where?” he demanded. 

“I had the message over the telephone not a half 
hour ago—from my wife, who is frantic. We live 
up in New Epsom. My place is where the bay 
narrows down and bends around into the creek. 
Maybeth was out on the lawn with her nurse. She 
climbed down to the beach and the nurse stayed on 
the lawn. From around the bend came a speed 
boat. The tide was just right so they could nose in. 
One of the men in the boat jumped ashore, grabbed 
Maybeth, carried her to the boat,—they were off 
like that! The nurse screamed! The Shumans 
next door were out in their cruiser. They gave 
chase. But they hadn’t a chance to overhaul this 
boat. I called up the police, the Mayor, the District 
Attorney. I have everybody I know in New T Epsom 
hunting. . . . But, Kennedy, this was brought into 
my office by a messenger boy, not ten minutes ago. 
I read it and took a taxi directly here to you.” 

Hunter passed Kennedy a note, then dropped 
down on a chair, his elbows on his knees and his 
head between his hands, as the tears streamed down 
the rough cheeks of the man of iron will. 

“Maybeth is held for ransom. 

“You know what the ransom is! 

“Unless you disband your committee and desist in your 
opium crusade . . . ! 


“The Sallow Face.” 


HELD FOR RANSOM 


269 


“I’ve* had threats ever since I’ve been in it,” mut¬ 
tered Hunter. “But never anything like this from 
those sallow-faced drug addicts! ... I cannot let 
up. The city Narcotic Division is in it. Federal 
agents are in it, now. I cannot call them off! What 
shall I do? They couldn’t know that I have 
stopped, when so many are fighting it, even if I did 
stop. . . . Why did they have to vent their spite on 
my pretty little innocent girl? If I had the man 
who took her”—he brought his fingers together like 
a vise—“I would choke him! Why didn’t they ask 
for money—all that I’ve got?” 

Kennedy said nothing. I knew he was thinking 
it all over, where to begin. Such a case is like a 
spherical safe; no corner on which to take hold. 
Once loosed, Hunter’s tongue poured out a flood of 
speculation, fear, conjecture. 

“Why do I take such risks with such desperate 
people, you may ask? Well, I had an uncle once 
who went wrong with opium—became a veritable 
John Jasper. He used to go away for weeks. His 
wife died. Then he disappeared with his little 
daughter. He died, I’ve been told. But he left no 
trace until then. I guess the child died before he 
did. I was a young chap then. I often used to 
think—I might have been his Edwin Drood! . . . 
Nowadays, the thing is spreading, spreading fast. 
For instance, do you know my latest tip?” 

“No,” I replied. “Some joint on Central Park 
West?” 

“No.” 

“Greenwich Village?” I mentioned the literary 
standby. 

He shook his head. “Right in the old aristocratic 


270 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

Heights section of Brooklyn/’ nodded Hunter. 
‘'Greenwich Village started to move over—but the 
atmosphere didn’t take—or something. Now, I’ve 
had this tip—a society opium joint—'The Poppy,’ I 
tell you—somewhere right in the old Heights, over 
the River, or the Bay. Maybe one of the addicts I 
employ as a stool pigeon squealed. I don’t know. 
They stop at nothing. If you only knew them as I 
do—but then you mightn’t want to help me!” 

"Where is her picture?” returned Kennedy. 

"I’ve always lived out of town, for the sake of the 
child. I have scores of pictures. But none of them 
right here.” 

"Who took them; yourself?” 

"Many of them. But I have the most wonderful 
child photographer, Vail—you know Vail’s Photo- 
Art Studio just off Fifth Avenue in the forties?” 

"Well,” decided Kennedy, "let’s go downtown to 
the studio and get some of the plates.” 

The Vail Studio was at the back of an old four- 
story brownstone house, held by the company which 
owned the adjoining office building, in order to pro¬ 
tect the light and air. All around were other office 
buildings. We walked up to the top floor of the 
old house, all of which seemed to have been con¬ 
verted to business, gowns, hair-dressing, stamps and 
coins—all sorts of things. 

When we entered Vail’s Studio we were met by 
Vail himself, a man of middle age with bushy dark 
hair, bushy eyebrows, and eyes that looked out at 
you from behind heavy dark tortoise-shell glasses, as 
if estimating not only your portrait value but how 
far there was any prospect of success in collecting 
for "Art” and a Fifth Avenue reputation. 



HELD FOR RANSOM 


271 


At the mere hint of our mission, Vail introduced 
us to his daughter Eva Vail, who was seated at a 
small mahogany table delicately finishing some 
photographs. 

I was startled by the beauty of the girl’s face, a 
perfect oval with dainty coloring. Her hair was 
golden, with coppery threads running through it. 
She dressed it very plainly. A low brow of sur¬ 
passing whiteness was surmounted by a mass of 
shiny waves of hair, simply parted and waved softly 
over her ears into a huge knot at the hollow of her 
neck. The dark blue of her gown accentuated her 
fairness. Everything about her denoted the sim¬ 
plicity of good taste. 

At once she was excited at the appeal of our re¬ 
quest. But it was, like everything else, a quiet excite¬ 
ment. What impressed me was her manner toward 
her father. Even in locating the negatives she con¬ 
sulted him, and her quiet gentle voice murmured 
acquiescence in every direction he gave. 

When at last she found the latest negatives of the 
child and I held them up to the light to see the 
roguish, romping, little Maybeth, I could not but 
admire the picture Eva Vail made herself. When 
she raised her eyes there was a haunting wistfulness 
about them that somehow seemed to stir me, though 
I thought that they were strange eyes, with pupils 
so small as to be almost like a pinhead. There are 
some women who can stir the sympathy of a man, 
who can make one feel as if he should assume the 
role of protector. That is even more dangerous than 
the “come hither” look, as a disturber of equilibrium. 
It not only provokes all the thrill of passion but 
plays on vanity. Men love to feel they are pro- 


272 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


tecting something at the same time they are loving 
it. 

As we started uptown again, Hunter made as if to 
go with us, until Kennedy stopped him. 

“I suspect you are followed all the time, Hunter,” 
he cautioned. “Keep your eyes open in four direc¬ 
tions. Be careful in crowds and more so when you 
are not. You had better have very little to do with 
me until I call on you/' 

Hunter agreed that we communicate through the 
University Club downtown, and we left him. 

It was dusk when we reached the laboratory and 
as we came near the door, I saw a shapeless mass on 
the floor. 

“By jingo, Craig, if it isn’t a souse—sleeping it 
off!” 

Kennedy turned the man over without a word to 
me. Through his back, in his coat, stuck a needle 
and a piece of paper. As Craig turned him, out of 
his hand under him rolled a gun. I picked it up. 
One shell had been fired. 

“A hypodermic!” exclaimed Craig as he withdrew 
the needle gingerly and held the paper up to the 
light. 

I read it. It had two simple words: 

“For Failure!” 


i 


II 


DUAL PERSONALITY 

From the laboratory by telephone Kennedy 
started any number of lines of action, besides that 
which took the body of the poor unidentifiable un¬ 
fortunate to the Morgue. While we waited, Craig 
carefully plugged the hole in the door so that it 
could not be used with a wedge to split it open. 

When at last we left, it was with meticulous care 
that we shook any possible shadows following us. I 
was so interested in Craig’s various expedients for 
shaking loose from trailers that I did not notice 
until w r e were down in Forty-sixth Street just off 
Sixth Avenue that the Adams Costume Company 
was his objective. I knew the place, not so much 
for disguises as for furnishing about every theatrical 
costume and property imaginable, from a mandarin 
to a man in armor. 

Kennedy selected the dress and by the aid of 
mascara and the help of an attendant whom he 
knew, soon had himself and me a couple of Pana¬ 
manians, half Spanish, half Indian, mestizos. 

“We’ll hunt that place in Brooklyn, The Poppy,’ 
now,” he muttered under his breath, as we brushed 
up the little Spanish we remembered and otherwise 
got into the manner of gawking at the wonders of a 
great city. 

“And smoke?” I asked fearfully. 

273 


274 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“Be careful of that!” was his sole hurried caution. 

A new subway took us under the river and when 
we regained the surface and walked leisurely, hesi¬ 
tating like strangers from an adoptive country, we 
came at last to the street that is known as Columbia 
Heights. Many feet below the level of the backs of 
the houses lay the roofs of warehouses. Out on the 
bay I could see the lights, the tugs, the barges, the 
tramps and liners, the huge floating masses of light 
on the municipal ferryboats. Down the shore from 
the warehouses and up the shore in front of them 
were ships, ships, ships, from all over the earth and 
its seven seas, ships flying every known flag, steam¬ 
ships, sailing ships. Over there somewhere I knew 
were the old Erie Basin and India Wharf. 

The subways and two bridges within a few blocks 
led to New York. This was surely out of the beaten 
track of Hunter and his dope crusaders. And it was 
within a stone’s throw of the ships that in all proba¬ 
bility smuggled the stuff in! 

I was peering at the numbers of the houses all 
along. Kennedy was doing the same. “If there 
are any scouts or pullers-in about, they must think 
w’e are a couple of hop-heads. Act the part!” 

All I could think of doing was to tremble for lack 
of the hop, as I had heard. Up the street now we 
could see a young girl walking aimlessly, yet watch¬ 
fully. Her very manner told one to “Come on,” as 
plainly as if she had broadcasted it. 

Kennedy nudged me as we paused and he looked 
up at a dark house on the river side of the street. 
“That’s the place, I tell you! Hurry! If I don’t 
hit the pipe soon I’ll fall apart!” 


DUAL PERSONALITY 275 

He almost shouted it. I thought the girl walked 
a bit more briskly toward us. 

“Sh! Sh! What do you want to do? Get the 
place pinched? If you w r ant it, don’t shout for it! 
You or no one else will have a chance to smoke, if 
you don’t look out. You’ll land in the Kings 
County, or Riker’s Island, see? I want a pill, too. 
Got any money?” She linked arms with both of us. 
“I know the place, boys . . . Only, please be quiet, 
will you? You’ll bring on a raid and a pinch.” 

“Down my country,” I rolled my Anglo-Saxon 
into a camouflage that might fool anyone but a 
Latin American, “we have no trouble. We know. 
But here, where for bunk and the dream? I need!” 
I held out my hand to let her see how I was shaking. 
In it I held a roll of bills that would have choked a 
pelican. There really were some bills—on the 
outside. 

Both Craig and the girl laughed. She gave me a 
languishing look and squeezed my arm. “I will take 
my pipe with you, if Ona will let me. Let us have 
divans together.” 

“What is the name, senorita?” I asked, adoring. 

“Call me Effie, Effie Barr, Rodolpho, until the 
second pipe—then you won’t care!” 

We stopped before a large dark brownstone man¬ 
sion. With a start I recognized the old Rapelje 
house! So this was the Poppy, the opium house. 

Effie gave five brisk knocks on the door and a long 
ring at the bell. The door opened slowly. 

“Effie and a couple of customers!” she pass- 
worded. 

An old Chinaman, Chang, who seemed to run the 
place, met us in the old foyer hall. He looked us 




276 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

over most carefully with Oriental cunning. I was 
indeed now shaking all over as if with the ague; I 
had acted myself into a reality. Craig was talking 
to Effie, urging her to hurry up with: “You call it 
—the pipe—the yen—what is?—the yen houck?” 
As he talked to her under the Chinese light I could 
not help noticing how large and lustrous were the 
pupils of the eyes of Effie, and what wonder there 
was in her hair, wdiether of itself or by those arts 
known as a transformation of which I wotted not. 
“A couple of customers!” It was the reverse of the 
bad old days with the “cadet” system of the red 
lights. 

We must have passed the first inspection with 
flying colors because from the foyer hall we were 
shown into a room that seemed innocuous enough. 
It was quite American in its appointments, beau¬ 
tifully furnished, quite like the room a prosperous 
Brooklynite might have for the living room of his 
home. Only here and there was a touch of the 
Oriental. There was no one about and I gathered 
that this living room and a general atmosphere of 
“Furnished Rooms for Rent” was only a blind. 

Effie seemed to respect our great craving for the 
drug, and hurried the proceedings as much as Chang 
permitted. Finally, she went out into a little hall¬ 
way that led from this room until she came to what 
looked like a well-appointed butler’s pantry. She 
leaned against the pantry closet. It swung out far 
enough from the wall to show us a small doorway 
into another room. 

Never shall I forget that room, the Chandu Room. 
Effie made an almost impish curtsy as she led us into 



DUAL PERSONALITY 277 

it, and beckoned to a woman who was reclining on a 
divan in the far comer. 

The Chandu Room was luxuriously Oriental. The 
walls seemed made of highly polished teak wood. 
There was little furniture about except small tables, 
extremely low divans, broad and comfortable, many 
lamps, lamps of dragons and serpents, soft, richly- 
colored cushions heaped on the divans and spilling 
over on the floor. Over our heads hung perhaps a 
dozen brilliant, rainbowed peacock tails, from the 
ceiling of old gold. The peacock feathers waved, 
gently, ever so gently in air currents that were im¬ 
perceptible even to me. They floated out, they rose 
and fell, so marvelous in beauty and color and light¬ 
ness, that already they fascinated me. 

“Ona, come fix the pipes for three. It is my turn 
to dream, now. Chang told me to take it. I have 
earned it. We want them together, Ona dear, and 
don’t disturb us—for hours!” 

I watched the woman so endearingly addressed, 
for I thought I detected a false ring in Effie’s voice. 
Now I was sure of it as I saw Ona of the underworld, 
pipe-fixer, the one who brought the visions that lure. 

“A couple of ‘spigottysl’ ” There was contempt 
in the undertone with which she addressed a couple 
on the other side of the weird room, contempt for 
Effie, contempt for us, Effie’s supposed friends and 
customers. 

However, it was all in the night’s work. Ona pro¬ 
ceeded with yen-hok and lamp and all the parapher¬ 
nalia of the opium queen to “cook” a “pill.” 

What was visible of the floor was. covered with a 
wonderful Persian carpet. There was a lattice built 
on one side of the room over the teak wood wall and 


278 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

entwined through it were the most marvelous arti¬ 
ficial flowers I have ever seen. They were redolent 
with musk and the perfumes of the East. It was 
seductive, even the sickish odor of the opium. Per¬ 
haps ... if Kennedy had not been there ... I 
might have succumbed to the lure of the dreamy 
eyes of Ona and Effie and really smoked the pipe of 
dreams. 

All about me were things to entrance the eye and 
seduce the senses. Effie went over to the farthest 
comer while Ona was busy and began moving a huge 
Chinese screen. 

“Ill get the divans ready,” she murmured, with 
a reckless use of the beautifully scented pillows. “I 
like to wake up comfortable. The more pillows, the 
more gentle the dream awakening!” 

I had followed her over, but as I did so, I saw that 
Chang had entered the luxurious Chandu Room and 
was now talking to the couple on the divans behind 
no screen. A ray of light fell on the face not only 
of the squat, swart Chinese but on the others. I 
started violently when I recognized Cora Carew, the 
scenario writer for so many fantastic productions in 
the pictures, and near her Paul Page, the motion 
picture star in rugged “Westerns.” I could scarcely 
believe that this pasty face was Paul’s when he was 
made up. As for Cora, her face was permanently 
made up; I know not what was under the face 
enamel. 

So, I thought, that was how, hitting the pipe, this 
pair dreamed their dreams and so got the stories Paul 
played! I learned later that he had taken cures 
innumerable, but that now he had got to a truly 
Oriental tolerance and limited habit. As for Cora, 


DUAL PERSONALITY 279 

she depended on it too much to let it run to excess 
—yet. 

Into the curiously carved Chinese pipes Ona had 
dropped the glowing “pill,” one in each of the three, 
and in the far corner stood the lacquered box from 
which with the spatula she had dipped out of the 
gummy mass three times to “cook” in the flame of 
the weird spirit lamp as the vapors of the drug curled 
and rose. The outfit was there, because by con¬ 
cealed buttons in many parts of the room she or the 
proprietor, Chang, if there were a raid, could make 
it disappear as neatly as any magician. 

Kennedy as he approached had rearranged the 
screen so that both of us might seem to smoke, with¬ 
out inhaling, and with as little absorption of the 
seductive vapor as possible, yet seem to succumb 
quickly to its pleasures. At the same time we might 
see and hear all that took place. 

It was not long before a very slender, rather short 
fellow appeared at the other end of the room. By 
the deference of Ona I supposed he was a star cus¬ 
tomer. But as Chang later appeared with equal 
deference, I was at a loss to make out whether this 
was a gunman from our own underworld or the 
owner of this and a veritable chain of opium dens. 

Paisley was the name, I caught. Effie must have 
gained a tolerance for the opium, for one pipe had 
not put her in the dream sleep. The moment she 
heard Paisley's name, she was slowly, sinuously on 
her feet, moving toward him as he talked with 
Chang, Ona beside him. 

I did not hear the words that passed between Ona, 
the opium queen of the inside and Effie, the lure, 
on the outside, who brought the smokers in. But I 


280 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


gathered that there was bitter jealousy between the 
two as to Paisley. There was no loudness; just a 
biting, catty scratching and hair pulling, that re¬ 
sulted in a nose bleeding from Effie, before Chang 
and Paisley could separate the two. 

Kennedy, pipe apparently half finished, staggered 
over to them, put his arm about Effie and drew her 
toward our corner, while Paisley, seeing the opportu¬ 
nity, withdrew from the Chandu Room altogether, 
leaving only Chang as guardian of the two women. 
Craig drew Effie down on the couch beside him, and 
passed his pipe to her. As I watched narrowly I 
saw that the large lustrous eyes of Effie seemed to 
be changing. The pupils already seemed almost like 
pin-heads. Kennedy was particular about his large 
white handkerchief as he held her head back and 
stopped the bleeding nose. He placed the handker¬ 
chief carefully folded in his pocket. 

“The electronic buzz?” I teased dreamily, “Dr. 
Abrams’ occilloclast? Is she facing west? Maybe 
you can tell her religion by the buzz-blood test!” 

I would not have ventured it except in a whisper 
and seeing her eyes now closed. Craig frowned si¬ 
lence at me and I shut up. 

Suddenly I was aware that the lattice on the teak- 
wood wall was but a cover for a part of the wall that 
slid, that back of it was still another room, and that 
it was open, as Ona made her way there in response 
to some summons. 

Chang was there. With him was a beady-eyed 
Japanese, Nichi, by name. 

Chang seemed volubly excited in several languages 
and his English was quite “pidgin.” As nearly as I 
could make out, a ship, the Manchu Queen, was in 


DUAL PERSONALITY 281 

port. Chang had heard bitter complaints down in 
the bunks. “In bunks, in cellar.” It was accom¬ 
panied by a gesture to the nadir. So—there were 
old-time Chinatown bunks in the cellar of this 
house, I thought. Then I thought of the roofs of 
the warehouses many feet below that, of the streets 
below even that. I could imagine many things. 

There were the complaints. Messages in code 
had come that counterfeit money had been paid for 
the last shipment. 

“It is a game!” said Nichi, in a guttural tone. 
“Money no good? They want money—two times? 
. . . Is opium always good?” 

The answer did not satisfy Chang. Or else was 
Chang with true Oriental guile trying to pass the 
buck to Nichi and alibi himself? At any rate, this 
was clear. The drug runner gang was being paid in 
counterfeits! It told nothing about the little May- 
beth. But it opened a wide field. Who was the 
man higher up who was doing this thing? Who was 
trying to “shove” the “queer” abroad where it was 
safer than here? 

Nichi changed the subject to a Grand Jury investi¬ 
gation up in the old Post Office Building in the 
Federal Court for the Eastern District of the state, 
the new laws of the second Opium Conference, many 
things. . . . 

Try as I would I could not keep from inhaling a 
certain amount of the sickish medicinal wisps of 
fumes, not only from my pipe but from that of 
Kennedy and the numerous pipes that Effie called 
for before she succumbed to them, to say nothing of 
the now heavily laden atmosphere from Cora Carew, 
Paul Page, and some others who had come in. I 


282 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


began to feel it. The waving peacock feathers from 
the ceiling wafted me along on a golden sea—and I 
lived over all I had ever known east of Suez. 

It was far into the early morning hours of dark¬ 
ness when I felt Kennedy rousing me and I queru¬ 
lously followed him. I looked about. Effie was 
gone. Craig, too, had succumbed, almost as had I. 
We staggered out into the misty morning air that 
rose from the bay and its two rivers that met out be¬ 
yond us. The air seemed to do me good, but I real¬ 
ized that it needed more than air; it needed Nature 
and time to eliminate that poison from my system. 

“What became of Effie?” I repeated for the third 
time. 

Kennedy shook his head as we shuffled toward the 
subway. “I don’t know . . . but I know one 
thing.” 

“What is that?” 

“Effie Barr and Eva Vail are one and the same— 
a dual personality!” 

“What!” I cried, roused to doubt. “The hair?” 

“The dressing changed. You forget what a dif¬ 
ference it is if a girl shows her ears or covers them.” 

“But the eyes.” Then I paused. 

“Yes,” he agreed, “the eyes. That is it. Large 
and shining pupils once—small as a pinhead, again. 
That I must study. That is a clue.” He paused as 
we waited for the infrequent morning trains. “As 
I see it, I must merge these two personalities—then 
the real Eva-Effie may lead us to the Soul 
Merchant!” 




Ill 


LIKE THE LOTUS 

It was rather later than usual the next morning 
after seizing a few hours of recuperating sleep that 
Craig and I dropped around to the laboratory, our 
minds still full of the recollection of the insidious 
Poppy house. 

There were waiting for Kennedy positives from 
the negatives from the Vail studio of little Maybeth 
Hunter, which Craig had already sent down to 
Deputy O’Connor to have developed and sent out 
broadcast by the police in the official search for the 
little girl. With the copies also came a brief sum¬ 
mary of the activity, so far fruitless, of the Bureau 
of Missing Persons. 

A mere glance was enough to stir the sympathy of 
the veriest stranger. What a beautiful child it was! 
Out of most of the photographs peeped a chubby 
little face with the most beguiling baby smile. Only 
five, Maybeth had retained the innocent baby won¬ 
der-look in her deep-set eyes. In another picture 
she was lying on a rug looking at a picture book. It 
was such a profile as would have made the movie 
producer rave. Like a cameo her features were well 
defined and clear cut. Her little curls hung down 
her cheeks and over her shoulders, and her little fat 
legs were up in the air, while her head was resting 
on her hands with her elbows on the rug as the 
fairyland of the book entranced her. 

283 


284 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Kennedy had been impressed by the little girl, 
but his emotions had caused him to plunge directly 
into some work that he had had to postpone, while I 
continued to sort over and gaze at the prints, as I 
figured out ways of giving the story the widest pub¬ 
licity and enlisting millions of child-lovers as our 
helpers. I had, of course, telephoned a story in to 
the Star and in the morning edition it had received 
a great spread with one of the pictures sent to head¬ 
quarters, as well as the picture of “Lonehand” Hun¬ 
ter himself. 

“It was the poison in that needle left in his coat 
that killed that poor devil last night,” volunteered 
Craig. 

“What was it?” 

“Ricin—ricinus.” 

“And that is?” 

“A new and little-known poison to us, though I 
believe it has been known to Oriental science. Ricin 
is derived from the shell of the castor-oil bean. Of 
course the Germans, being great chemists, have been 
able to get pure ricin. Professor Ehrlich stated at 
that time that one gram of pure ricin would kill 
1,500,000 guinea pigs. The pure ricin has been iso¬ 
lated by Professor Robert of Rostock, but it is sel¬ 
dom found except in an impure state, though even 
then it is deadly. It surpasses strychnine, prussic 
acid, and other drugs that we class as dangerous in 
most minute amounts.” 

“It shows how desperate and resourceful they are,” 
I remarked still thinking of the art of poisoning as 
it had reached its high state of perfection in the 
Orient. 

As it was, I was still so logy from my chandu 


LIKE THE LOTUS 


285 


cheer, that I had not had any desire for breakfast. 
I suggested to Craig that we have an earlier lunch 
than usual. He laughed at my looks and I suppose 
I was a sad specimen. Opium and I were such 
strange bedfellows that I showed my embarrassment 
still. 

Perhaps half an hour later I was still fussing 
around nervously when the buzzer on the laboratory 
door sounded. 

“Answer it, Walter,” murmured Craig abstractedly 
from another test into which he had plunged. 

“All right.” But to tell the truth I had no mind 
for it. After what had happened, I think I may 
have been pardoned for being nervous about any¬ 
thing. I turned the knob gingerly and stood behind 
the protection of the door as I opened it. Before I 
could see who it was, I heard a voice that had a 
familiar ring. 

“Good morning! Is Mr. Kennedy in?” 

I was considerably relieved when I saw it was 
Vail, the baby photographer. I nodded and asked 
him in, though I could not resist a timorous look 
out into the hall and up the stairs to the next floor 
whence had come the sudden attack on our last 
visitor. 

Craig, who had reached a point where he could 
interrupt his work at the other end of the laboratory, 
came down and greeted Vail also. 

“Mr. Kennedy,” began Vail in a sort of apologetic 
voice, as his eyes glowed warmly in their crows-feet 
behind his big round spectacles, “I couldn’t get the 
thought of that little child out of my head. Eva 
and I talked about the pity of it when you and Mr. 
Hunter left yesterday. Woman-like, Eva w T as al- 


286 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

most in tears over it. ... To take a little child 
away from its mother like that is a devilish thing. 
. . . I wonder why they did it? Was it Black Hand 
—money ?” Vail shook his head dismally as he con¬ 
templated the outrage, then leaned back in his chair 
and sighed. “Mr. Kennedy, you don’t know the 
worries a parent has raising a girl these days.” 

“Well, Mr. Vail,” rejoined Kennedy, forced to ad¬ 
mit the lack of personal worry, “I’ll admit that the 
little ones like Maybeth Hunter need careful watch¬ 
ing to bring up—but I think the older ones, the mod¬ 
ern girl when she has passed the stage of childhood, 
are fully capable of taking care of themselves. What 
would worry me would be if I had a boy.” 

“You may be right; you may be right. Heaven 
knows, your experiences must have been so varied, 
you ought to know. . . . But worry over my own 
daughter’s safety makes me feel for Mr. Hunter. I 
have printed a dozen copies from each of the other 
negatives for Mr. Hunter’s use. Only, I didn’t know 
where to reach him. I couldn’t get him at his home 
—and I—I wanted to see you. ... I was going to 
give these to help—just one father to another.” 

The kindly smile on his face and in his voice 
seemed to indicate that he wanted to go further. 
But still he hesitated. Finally, he summoned up 
courage and without a word moved over toward 
Craig, tremulously taking his arm. 

“We all have our troubles,” he murmured softly. 
“My Eva worries me. At work with me during the 
day, before people, she seems all that I could wish 
a girl to be. But, Mr. Kennedy, I have no control 
over her at home or at night. I can’t be at home 
every evening; there is so much to attend to. . . . 


LIKE THE LOTUS 


287 


She does just what she pleases. She goes out all 
hours of the night. I come home, and she is never 
there. Thank heaven, she hasn’t taken to staying 
away all night. I have tried everything but the law 
—and I can’t do that. I don’t know where she goes 
or what she does—but—my God!—help Mr. Hun¬ 
ter clean up this beautiful city and I’ll work with 
you—hoping the best for Eva!” 

Kennedy showed his sympathy for the bowed 
man and shook hands with him encouragingly at the 
door. Vail’s confidences over Eva seemed to have 
unnerved him, so that I hesitated to let him go alone. 
However, I reasoned, he was safer alone than either 
Kennedy or I would be. 

Craig returned to the work he had been doing 
and soon completed it. 

“I’ve been analyzing that blood on my handker¬ 
chief last night when Effie’s nose was bleeding— 
apropos of Eva,” he remarked quickly, “the blood 
that you were so imaginative about as to suggest the 
wonderful occilloclast where binding posts are con¬ 
nected to nothing at all and volts are ohms!” 

I saw that he had made a discovery and that it 
puzzled him; hence his sarcasm. 

“I find that there must be some twilight sleep drug 
that is being used on her—on Eva-Effie, I suppose I 
should say. You recall that twilight sleep was sup¬ 
posed to steal away the memory?” 

“Yes—I remember my Anabasis, T fear lest like 
the lotus-eaters we forget the homeward journey.’ ” 

“Then,” continued Kennedy, “after Eva is under 
it, I gather that her personality is changed . . . she 
gets the opium. You recall the eyes of Effie when 
we met her were large and lustrous? That was from 


288 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


some mydriatic alkaloid like that used in twilight 
sleep. Then they contracted to pinheads, under the 
opium. Did you notice the eyes of Eva yesterday, 
the pupils strangely small? I suspect that is from 
the opium hang-over—until someone gives her this 
memory-destroying, Jekyll and Hyde alkaloid.” 

“But who gives her the memory drug—and how? 
What about Effie—I mean Eva?” 

“I want to see her,” decided Craig. 


IV 

THE ANTHRAX BOMB 


I could appreciate the effort to get at the “other 
self” of Eva Vail—the Efhe self—and it was with no 
small anticipation that I accompanied Craig to the 
studio. 

Eva Vail was alone. When she saw us she smiled 
quietly. I was startled now that Kennedy had dis¬ 
covered the resemblance and had called my attention 
to it—Eva Vail with her quiet, gentle ways and Effie 
Barr with her laughing, good-natured vivacity. 

“How are you feeling this morning, Miss Vail?” 
greeted Craig cheerfully, as he was careful to close 
the door. 

Eva lifted two beautiful deep blue eyes to us with 
rather a questioning glance, as if inquiring our busi¬ 
ness. I wondered. Did she as Eva, even dimly, 
recall us from the night before? Or had our dis¬ 
guises left nothing to be carried over from the Effie 
personality to Eva? I found myself becoming 
rather tangled in my hasty thinking of the two and 
decided to listen to Kennedy conduct the pro¬ 
ceedings. 

“Didn’t you receive the pictures?” she asked 
naively. “Father left this morning with them. I 
helped get them off as quickly as I could. ... We 
felt so sorry for Mr. Hunter.” I wondered, again. 
Was she a great actress—or was her mind really a 
blank? 


289 


290 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“Yes; they are fine. Only ... I came up to see 
if that was all the negatives you found.” 

“Oh, Mr. Kennedy, yes—that is all.” She said 
it with her firm quiet tone and it sounded like dis¬ 
missal. But Craig was not taking it so. 

“Do you like this line of work, Miss Vail?” he 
asked. 

“Yes. . . . Why?” Her reply was a disconcert¬ 
ing question. 

“Oh, nothing . . . but it might seem dull to some 
girls, being away from everything as much as this 
studio is.” 

“Well, I have many questions to answer during 
the day—and that and my work keep me so busy I 
don’t have time to be dull.” 

I mentally muttered, “Squelch for you, Craig!” 
But Craig was undeterred. His persistence was al¬ 
ways remarkable with a recalcitrant, unwilling 
witness. 

“What do you do in your spare time, Miss Yail 
. . . continue your studies in photography? I have 
some mighty fine books on the subject ... if you 
would like me to send them up.” 

“No, I never accept anything from strangers. It 
is father’s wish.” She lowered her eyes on her w T ork 
as plainly as if she had said, “Good morning.” 

Undismayed, Craig tackled it from another angle. 
“Your father and I had quite a chat this morning. 
We may go into a—a little business together, and I 
expect to see more of you, then. I’m sure he 
wouldn’t mind your talking—just a little bit—to me, 
Miss Vail.” He lowered his chin a little and looked 
with laughing eyes at her. 

Eva could not help smiling back. “Mr. Kennedy, 


THE ANTHRAX BOMB 


291 


you’re persistent! I didn’t know you were so 
friendly with my father. Of course, then. . . . But 
father scolded me this morning,” she confided. “He 
said I was too—too wild and unruly ... to be more 
reserved. I was only trying to obey him.” 

“You—wild—unruly!” I could not help blurting it 
out, although Kennedy gave me a look that plainly 
meant to shinny on my own side. 

It did not disturb Eva’s good humor, however. 
“Thank you, Mr. Jameson; that was the surest kind 
of compliment.” 

“Yes, Miss Vail,” cut in Craig, “your idea of being 
wild and unruly does seem amusing.” 

She looked at Kennedy with a quick anxiety. “In 
the morning I must admit I am mean and disagree¬ 
able—to him; to everybody. But I feel tired. I 
don’t want to get up so early. I’m afraid I should 
have been a millionaire’s daughter ... I feel so 
little inclined to anything in the morning.” 

“H’m,” considered Craig. “Do you feel all right 
—physically? I mean, have you had any medical 
advice? How do you feel in the evening?” 

“Oh, I feel better in the evening. In fact I feel 
the way I should feel. When I go home, I often 
walk all the way. I have lots of energy and verve.” 

Kennedy laughed. Eva looked at him and 
flushed. “Why are you laughing? Isn’t it a good 
word?” 

“Perfectly good. But you girls! You feel fine at 
night. I suppose you go out and dance all night or 
go to the theatre and supper afterward. No won¬ 
der you are tired. You’re burning the candle at 
both ends.” 

Eva turned suddenly to me as a champion. “Mr. 



292 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Jameson . . . really, I don’t. You don’t believe 
him ... do you? Father goes out in the evenings 
and I am home almost every night. We have a few 
friends who call usually only in the early part of the 
evening. I see them or father does and I am usually 
in bed early.” She looked reproachfully at Ken¬ 
nedy and shook her slender finger. “Now don’t 
think I’m a giddy, irresponsible person. I’m not.” 

Craig hastened to reassure her. “Really, I don’t, 
Miss Vail. I can’t help teasing—a little. . . . Who 
calls on you every evening?” insinuated Craig, with 
a wink at me so she could see it. 

“There, Mr. Kennedy, you’re all wrong! It isn’t 
any man. I know what you are thinking. . . . 
Well, it’s usually a girl. . . there’s a woman who has 
a position with the stamp and coin company down¬ 
stairs, for instance. She often drops in to see me. 

. . . After that I read a while . . . or go to bed. So, 
there! You’ll find no sweetheart in my young life!” 

We laughed, kidding. Again I wondered. For I 
knew that Craig had held her in his arms the night 
before on a divan with an opium pipe in her mouth 
—and she had been willing! 

She looked at her wrist watch on its black silk 
band against her white skin. “Really—I am very 
busy—all alone here, now. If I don’t get this work 
done, father’ll have another grievance.” 

“Do you understand that girl?” I asked as we 
threaded our way downstairs. “Looks like a deep 
one to me.” 

Kennedy shook his head, disinclined to commit 
himself. 

At the University Club, which we had agreed with 
Hunter to use as a “post-office,” we dropped in and 


THE ANTHRAX BOMB 293 

inquired at the desk. There was a note for Craig 
and he tore it open and read: 

“Kennedy: 

“Will be at your laboratory with Captain Payne of New 
Epsom at three o’clock. He has found the speed boat, he 
says. 

“Hunter.” 

Kennedy frowned. “I wish he’d stay away. It 
will be the death of him yet, the risks that man 
takes. Can we get there in fifteen minutes?” 

In the hall, which they were watching very care¬ 
fully, we came upon Hunter and the bearded, 
grizzled old salt, Captain Payne, who seemed to be 
a friend of his. Whether he was or not, as Kennedy 
said later, it made little difference. Suppose Payne 
had located the speed boat abandoned off City Is¬ 
land? That proved nothing. 

“But,” objected Hunter to the latter part of 
Craig’s objection as he voiced it then, “I can call up 
the Customs House and get the name of the owner. 
The Captain has the registry number.” Hunter 
started to open the locked laboratory door. 

“No . . . don’t!” warned Craig. 

With curt directions not even to touch the knob 
and leaving me to see that they did not, Kennedy 
went outside and circuited the Chemistry Building, 
so that even if Payne were not all he represented 
himself to be he would have no clue to the secret 
entrance Craig had installed from the storeroom 
below up back of the new electric furnace. 

W T hen he opened the door, which was after time 
enough to have done so half a dozen times, I saw a 
peculiar look on his face. On a table stood a con- 


294 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

traption of sheet iron and glass, with wires running 
from it nowhere. 

“Someone’s been in here/’ exclaimed Craig. 
“That thing was connected so that when the door 
was opened it would explode. I’ve been expecting 
a threat to me, danger to the laboratory. Only I 
didn’t know what form it would take—arson, a 
bomb, or what.” 

Forgetting the speed boat, he set to work with his 
X-ray and fluoroscope, studying the interior of the 
deadly engine he had disconnected before admitting 
us. 

The X-ray enabled him to take it slowly and care¬ 
fully apart piece by piece, until he cautiously lifted 
out a thin glass tube that had been placed directly 
over the explosive, also in thin glass. In fact all 
about was glass, except for the light container. 
Under the microscope he studied a drop of the con¬ 
tents, compared it with a colored plate in a book on 
bacteriology, then faced us. 

“That’s the sort of thing you may expect in the 
next war, gentlemen—bacteria, disease, death! 
That was an anthrax bomb. It might not strike you 
down at once, by chance. But a scratch from that 
glass and—well, you have heard of that disease— 
deadly?” 

“Devilish!” I muttered as I thought things over. 
“Devilish war engine—like a Jap!” 




y 


RAMIFICATIONS 

Since in his utter nervousness, Hunter could not 
control his restless desire to be on the go, doing 
something, no matter what it was, Kennedy shipped 
him off down on a personal visit to the Customs 
House to look up the history and lineage of the 
speed boat Payne had discovered, ownerless. He did 
so with a parting aside to Hunter to be careful, to 
watch even Payne himself. Then he closed the 
laboratory and we walked over to our apartment, 
again going through all Craig's elaborate manner to 
discover and elude shadowers. 

It was scarcely four o'clock and we had not been 
in our apartment on the Drive half an hour before 
the little bell at the door tinkled. This time Ken¬ 
nedy answered it. 

It was a smiling, good-natured-looking woman 
about fifty years old, who in some way had got up 
without being encountered by the hall boy at the 
entrance. 

“And are you Mr. Kennedy?" she inquired, giving 
Craig a frankly admiring glance. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?" he returned. 

She looked up at him, her smile changing to a look 
of intense anxiety. Her motherly face seemed to be 
drawn in lines of worry. “Mr. Kennedy," she began 
as she sat down carefully in a big chair, “my name 

295 


296 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

is Mrs. Emilie Picard and I keep quite a large room¬ 
ing house on Ninety-seventh Street.” She mentioned 
the number, near the Park. “In the Star this morn¬ 
ing I read that you were helping Mr. Hunter to find 
his little daughter. I feel awful bad over it all. 
Maybe you think it strange; but I'm just one of 
those who get a lot of their emotions out of the 
newspapers—since I lost my all—Mr. Picard and 
then my baby. . . . The Star seemed to suggest that 
the reason back of the kidnapping was the animosity 
of the drug ring that Mr. Hunter has been fighting. 
Do you think so?” 

Kennedy nodded but said nothing. I was going 
to speak but Kennedy silenced me by quickly waving 
his hand back of him, clasped by the other. I felt 
that if I were back again in the old rooming house 
days I couldn’t have helped liking Mrs. Picard for a 
landlady. She was jovial, rather stout, not a Mrs. 
Prune, but of that other boarding house type, who 
seem to feel that they have a mission to perform. 

“Mrs. Picard,” hastened Kennedy, “why do you 
come here? . . . Do you know anything?” 

“I can’t tell, Mr. Kennedy,” she began with that 
air of one imparting something Delphic, oracular. 
“I can’t tell whether or not I know anything—di¬ 
rectly—but some strange things have happened in 
my house in the last few months. Somehow, I man¬ 
age to attract the young people, boys and girls, alike. 
The poor things! They have no parents; all alone 
in the world. I make it as much a real home for 
them as I can.” 

She smiled genially at us. I couldn’t help think¬ 
ing that if there were only more rooming house 
keepers with a little sympathy in their hearts, how 


RAMIFICATIONS 297 

much better it would be for many of the young 
people. 

“I’ve always taken an interest in my boys and 
girls. I watch them carefully. When I see they 
are wholesome and good, I try to keep them so. 
Well, I had three brothers living with me. At first 
everything was all right. Then they began to be 
secretive and have strange visitors. These people 
always came to the boys’ room at night, and were 
never brought down to meet the other folks. I 
didn’t like it and I told the boys so. Then finally 
the boys took to staying away all night. But al¬ 
ways one of them would be home. I never could 
clean their room right. One of them would even be 
in it all through the sweeping. 

“That sort of ruffled my temper. And then when 
one of the boys started to take one of the dearest 
little girls I had with me out nearly every night 
. . . I was sick! The whole atmosphere about the 
place seemed changed. Suspicion and an unaccount¬ 
able secrecy enveloped me, and I was so worried 
that my other boys and girls noticed it. 

“Well, finally I spoke to these young men, and 
they tried to laugh everything off. But somehow I 
wasn’t fooled. I managed to get Frank—that was 
the youngest—to promise me he would leave little 
Carrie alone. I felt responsible for her. That was 
a week ago. Carrie had begun to look pale and 
haggard and so nervous! I thought the poor little 
thing was eating her heart out over the loss of 
Frank’s friendship. I was bothered, I’m telling 
you.” Here Mrs. Picard drew out a handkerchief 
and dabbed silently at her eyes. 

“Did you see anything definitely strange?” ques- 


298 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

tioned Kennedy, eager to get down to something 
tangible in her sea of words and emotions. “Did 
you ever find any letters or anything else about their 
rooms—in the waste baskets?” 

“That's the funny part,” she returned eagerly. 
“There never was anything in the waste that came 
down. But the way they carried suitcases in and 
out was mighty queer. ... Well .. . this Hunter 
kidnapping took place. My young folks were talk¬ 
ing about it downstairs and when I went out in 
the hall suddenly I found Frank eavesdropping. I 
never let on I noticed it, but I made up my mind 
then and there that there'd be no more spying. I 
would stop it by putting them out. 

“Now, here's something mighty strange. I didn’t 
have to put them out. This forenoon when I went 
to their room, they had gone and the month's rent 
for the next month was on the table! I hurried over 
to Carrie’s room. She was gone, too. There wasn't 
a thing in the boys' room but under the mattress in 
Carrie's room was this. I think I know what it is 
but I am not sure.” 

She drew from a large reticule a complete little 
lay-out for smoking opium—pipe, spatula, box, 
lamp, and all. Also there were three or four “decks” 
of either heroin or cocaine. I thought it looked like 
peddling the stuff, as well as using it. 

“But is that all?” Craig’s face was gravely earn¬ 
est. “I don't see, though, what that has to do with 
the kidnapping.” 

“Why, just one more thing,” she hastened, for she 
was the kind that have to get at a thing in their 
own way if they go all around Cape Horn. “In the 
boys' room there were a lot of recent newspapers, 


RAMIFICATIONS 


299 


all the papers this morning. Everything about the 
Hunter case was cut out. Why did they do that? 
Why have they gone, right after it? I left the room 
just as they left it. Please come over to the house— 
help me. Maybe they’ve left some fingerprints— 
or something you might know that I don’t, of course. 
. . . Oh, I want to get that little Carrie back!” 

She took Craig’s hand. Almost she was crying 
over it as if little Carrie had been her own and all 
the time she was asking him questions about whom 
to go to to find out about this “drug ring,” how they 
acted, w T hat Kennedy knew, and was he of the 
opinion that Carrie had been made a victim. I 
thought she would never go until Kennedy faith¬ 
fully promised to look up her house that night. 
It must have taken twenty minutes to dam the 
flood of emotion, even then. 

Mrs. Picard had scarcely gone at last, and we 
were sure of it, when Kennedy called O’Connor. 

“Don’t go!” came back that genial Irish voice. 
“My men get into more trouble from the volunteers 
than you ever heard of. They’re spies, I tell you. 
You’ll get in trouble. They’ll frame you!” 

“You make me more determined than ever to 
follow her up,” laughed Craig, actually in earnest, 
as the conversation changed. 

“O’Connor has been looking up that Paisley and 
Ona as well as Effie in the records,” Craig imparted 
as he hung up and turned to me. “Paisley has a 
record; so has Ona. They’ve each done time in 
the Federal penitentiary for drug selling—fine places 
to learn more about it, too! It’s like teaching thugs 
boxing at Sing Sing—or giving them revolver prac¬ 
tice! Paisley served the longer term; there was a 


294 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

traption of sheet iron and glass, with wires running 
from it nowhere. 

“Someone's been in here/' exclaimed Craig. 
“That thing was connected so that when the door 
was opened it would explode. Tve been expecting 
a threat to me, danger to the laboratory. Only I 
didn't know what form it would take—arson, a 
bomb, or what.” 

Forgetting the speed boat, he set to work with his 
X-ray and fluoroscope, studying the interior of the 
deadly engine he had disconnected before admitting 
us. 

The X-ray enabled him to take it slowly and care¬ 
fully apart piece by piece, until he cautiously lifted 
out a thin glass tube that had been placed directly 
over the explosive, also in thin glass. In fact all 
about was glass, except for the light container. 
Under the microscope he studied a drop of the con¬ 
tents, compared it with a colored plate in a book on 
bacteriology, then faced us. 

“That’s the sort of thing you may expect in the 
next war, gentlemen—bacteria, disease, death! 
That was an anthrax bomb. It might not strike you 
down at once, by chance. But a scratch from that 
glass and—well, you have heard of that disease— 
deadly?” 

“Devilish!” I muttered as I thought things over. 
“Devilish war engine—like a Jap!” 


RAMIFICATIONS 


Since in his utter nervousness, Hunter could not 
control his restless desire to be on the go, doing 
something, no matter what it was, Kennedy shipped 
him off down on a personal visit to the Customs 
House to look up the history and lineage of the 
speed boat Payne had discovered, ownerless. He did 
so with a parting aside to Hunter to be careful, to 
watch even Payne himself. Then he closed the 
laboratory and we walked over to our apartment, 
again going through all Craig’s elaborate manner to 
discover and elude shadowers. 

It was scarcely four o’clock and we had not been 
in our apartment on the Drive half an hour before 
the little bell at the door tinkled. This time Ken¬ 
nedy answered it. 

It was a smiling, good-natured-looking woman 
about fifty years old, who in some way had got up 
without being encountered by the hall boy at the 
entrance. 

“And are you Mr. Kennedy?” she inquired, giving 
Craig a frankly admiring glance. 

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he returned. 

She looked up at him, her smile changing to a look 
of intense anxiety. Her motherly face seemed to be 
drawn in lines of worry. “Mr. Kennedy,” she began 
as she sat down carefully in a big chair, “my name 


302 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

—he started, then forced the words—“what is left 
of her—back to me? What good will it do if some¬ 
one swings—if my baby is—lost?” 

“They do not know that I am prepared to act 
as swift as a thunderbolt to-night. I doubt if 
Jameson know^s. It will sweep them by surprise. I 

must have six hours—and then-Craig 

clenched his hands as if he were throttling a demon. 

“But—what—will I—do?” asked Hunter help¬ 
lessly. 

“Go over to Brooklyn, if you must do something. 
See the Federal District Attorney there. Find out 
all the dope cases—all—that he is presenting to 
the Grand Jury. You can even get him to tell you 
of the cases he is preparing—and don’t forget the 
cases pending. They tell me there are almost as 
many as there are Volstead cases—and that’s enough 
business for one court to handle alone. Now, 
Hunter, just one big pull—and we’ll put this thing 
over—save Maybeth!” 

I do not suppose any other man in the world 
could have calmed the frantic father, who had not 
dared even to share his woe with the mother. No 
other than Kennedy could have reassured me. The 
tentacles of this drug thing, that had been created 
by the generally lawless condition that reform had 
brought about, burned itself into me until I saw how 
futile, how fatal had been the misguided attempt 
to make people good by sumptuary legislation that 
suddenly uprooted all regulated habits of thousands 
and thousands of years. 

“It’s no use,” muttered Kennedy, when we had 
seen Hunter off in front of the apartment in a taxi 
in which we knew he would be safe. “They’ve found 




WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS 


303 


me here at my own home. I might as well go back 
to the laboratory. At least there I have around me 
the stuff that I can use in any action I find 
necessary.” 

An idea occurred to him. Varying his manner 
of shaking shadows, he dived into a drug store where 
there was a telephone booth and put in a hurried 
call, as I stood watch in front by the windows. 
Then we resumed our walk. But not for long. 
Even before we came to the next public booth, Craig 
had thought of something else. Again he started 
lines of action. Four separate times did this occur 
on the short walk to the Laboratory. 

We let ourselves in through the secret cellar way, 
not even then without some trepidation, for there 
seemed to be nothing too uncanny for these crimi¬ 
nals to learn or to do. 

It was not very long after our arrival when the 
buzzer sounded, as Craig had almost predicted. 
What could not be predicted, though, was who 
would sound it. We were now a storm center, with 
literally hundreds of thousands of people trying to 
help us, mothers praying for us, and newspapers 
besieging us, over the wire. 

It was Vail again. He seemed bursting to tell 
something and Kennedy did not prevent him, for 
he wanted to listen, clear the track, and be ready 
to shoot ahead at a moment’s notice. 

“About that woman that Eva told you of this 
morning,” he began excitedly. 

“Wliich woman?” asked Craig, declining to com- 
nit himself. 

“That woman she said dropped in to see us nights. 
She told me you were there and asking questions. 


304 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

Eva doesn’t know that you are trying to help her— 
but I do—and I think it’s wonderful to have a mind 
and heart that can turn aside even a moment on a 
big case like this to help a little man like me— 
even if Eva is such a big thing in my life. She told 
me she gave you a pretty good account of her daily 
life. It’s true, just as she told it. . . . But this 
woman. . . . Eva didn’t tell you, but she once 
worked for us. Now she’s downstairs in the Brown 
Stamp and Coin Company—er—rather doubtful 
people, I should say. What I’m getting at is that 
for a long time I’ve been wondering if she might not 
in some way be responsible for Eva—going out with 
her—or something ” 

“What’s her name?” asked Kennedy. 

“Mrs. Picard is one name she uses.” 

Seeing Kennedy’s imperturbable face, I said 
nothing. 

“Does she keep a rooming house?” he asked. 

“Oh, my, no. How could she, and work there? 
She’s got money; money invested in the business, 
I believe. She wanted to invest in my business. 
But I couldn’t see it. It would have been like the 
Arab, the camel, and the tent. I would have been 
out on the desert—like the Arab. If I had been in 
the tent—well, if you take a woman in partnership, 
it’s usually matrimony.” 

“Yes, I suppose so,” cut off Kennedy. “Is there 
a rooming house at that number on Ninety-seventh 
Street?” he asked, mentioning the address she had 
- given. 

“I believe there is. I’ve heard her speak of it.” 

“Well, Vail,” encouraged Kennedy taking his 
hand and at the same time gently walking to the 




WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS 


305 


door, for the old man seemed in danger of anchor¬ 
ing with his fears for his daughter, “thank you for 
your information. To-morrow I’ll learn more about 
the woman and the place, too.” 

Vail had scarcely gone when a messenger boy with 
a long envelope came. Kennedy signed for it and 
retired in the rear of the laboratory with the grue¬ 
some package in the pasteboard box. 

I never saw time roll so rapidly as it does when 
things are happening fast. It seemed incredible that 
Hunter could have returned in the space of time 
that he did, until I looked at my watch. 

“Did you learn anything?” I asked, peering at 
him. 

“Yes.” The voice was colorless. It would not 
have made much difference if he had learned that 
his whole lifework had been crowned by success. 
The one thing that mattered had gone terribly 
wrong. 

“Come here,” sang out Kennedy, turning. 

Hunter started, then drew back as if shot, for 
Craig was holding that terrible object—the child’s 
foot. Hunter’s hands went to his eyes; he nearly 
staggered. 

“No—no—not that. My wife—I haven’t told— 
how can I?” 

“I have the footprints from the Burnham Ma¬ 
ternity,” persisted Craig. “They take them as 
they do in lots of lying-in hospitals now for identifi¬ 
cation, to prevent babies from getting by any chance 
mixed up. This little foot here is not Maybeth’s!” 

Hunter stared, speechless. 

“It is the foot of some child who was already dead 



306 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

at the time it was cut off. I know enough from 
autopsy work to determine that.” 

Hunter grabbed me in his relief. He began talk¬ 
ing, wildly, excitedly. Before he knew it he was 
into an account of the cases before the federal grand 
jury in the eastern district of New York over in 
Brooklyn. 

“You know the special permit system in regard 
to import of opium adopted at the second Opium 
Conference held at Geneva?” he rattled on. I know 
his mind was on Maybeth, though his tongue was 
following a pent-up stream of ideas. “The regula¬ 
tions came into force in European countries Sep¬ 
tember first last year and in Japan the first of 
January this year. According to this agreement, 
those who intend to import opium must obtain an 
import permit from their government. This permit 
must be sent with any order for opium and certified 
by the government of the exporter. . . . Now, the 
quantity of opium manufactured in Japan or im¬ 
ported into Japan is much larger than the actual 
needs. The big case preparing over in Brooklyn 
now is against one Nichi, who by forged special per¬ 
mits and other trickery is building up a great inter¬ 
national business.” . . . He paused as Kennedy still 
regarded the little foot before him. Then, as he 
looked from the foot to the footprints from the 
Burnham, the relief caused the two streams of 
thought to merge again. “But—where is—May¬ 
beth?” he asked simply. 

Kennedy was ready. “The postmark, which you 
didn’t notice, of course, was the General Post Office 
in Brooklyn. That’s why I sent you over there. 


WHEELS WITHIN WHEELS 


307 


Everything—even the diversion of my own atten¬ 
tion over here to some perhaps mythical place on 
Ninety-seventh Street—points to one place, the 
Poppy, on the Heights, in Brooklyn!” 



VTI 

THE OPIUM QUEEN 

A murky night. Fog from the upper bay where 
it met the rivers. Whistles, sharp, deep-lunged, 
quick, steady, frightened, warning. Long fingers of 
searchlights pointing out, waving, lost in the fog. 
A drizzle on the streets. Skidding cabs. A solitary 
figure, collar up, shivering, shuffling into the old 
Rapelje house. 

Around the corner on a street that started at Ful¬ 
ton Street with banking and big business based 
on solid trust, threaded through wealth and co¬ 
operative living on the scale of wealth and ended 
down here high over the river, Kennedy, Hunter, 
and I waited with O’Connor and one of his addicts, 
who as stool pigeon got his dope by betraying his 
fellows, waited while another slunk into the Poppy 
House to give the signal. Around the other corner, 
within call on the next block, lurked others of 
O’Connor’s men, waiting. Back of us, where the 
street graded down to the river, cautiously ap¬ 
proached still others, federal agents. The police of 
the greatest city, the state commission of the great¬ 
est state, the forces of the greatest nation Kennedy 
had combined to raid and crush the viper of the 
Poppy House. 

Hunter clenched my elbow as he saw the gathering 
of forces. They might win. But what of little 

308 


THE OPIUM QUEEN 309 

Maybeth? He nerved himself. It was his zero 
hour. 

The signal! 

No art about this raid. Just a sudden swoop and 
a crash. It was all in the surprise and the speed. 
Axes. The door splintered. 

Silent, massed, wedged, we forced ourselves into 
the foyer hall, into the former living room. Ken¬ 
nedy led, down to the old butler’s pantry. The 
blind door to the Chandu Room opened. 

The signal had converged all the forces. There 
were men all over the house, swarming, over¬ 
whelming. 

“Don’t forget!” I cried. “There are bunks some¬ 
where—in the basement!” 

“Watch the roof!” came the strident order from 
O’Connor. “Up, men! Measure with your eyes for 
secret rooms. . . . Look out for traps!” 

I had not been a fraction of a second behind Ken¬ 
nedy and Hunter into the Chandu Room. We were 
all only just in time to catch the last glimpse of 
Chang and Nichi, as they disappeared through the 
lattice to the room where I had heard them talking 
the night before. 

Before the lattice Paisley with his arm about 
Effie w r as trying to carry her from a disordered 
divan. Her weight hindered him. Suddenly Ona, 
with all the venom of a python, wrapped her arms 
about the half-conscious girl, literally tore her from 
Paisley, and pushed him through as we catapulted 
forward—and stopped against the closing wall. 

Kennedy quickly searched for the hidden spring 
in the Chandu Room while I seized Ona as Hunter 


310 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

faced her, and a policeman grabbed Effie. Paisley 
was safe on Ona’s sacrifice! 

As men flashed past with disjointed reports, I 
realized the escape of Chang and Nichi, of Paisley 
probably, even as Craig found the spring in a few 
seconds and the wall back of the lattice swung open. 

We had captured Effie and Ona and a couple of 
addicts. I looked about. There were Paul Page 
and Cora Carew still. They had not even gone out. 
It had been at least a two days’ smoke. 

In the room beyond the lattice, Hunter, with the 
other arm of Ona, leaned over her tensely. “If you 
show us to the child’s room—it won’t go so hard 
with you!” he shot out. I could see he was using 
every bit of self-control he had to keep from throt¬ 
tling the boldly sneering she-devil. 

“Yes—the child’s room!” threatened O’Connor. 
“We’ve traced her here—by two addicts—verified it. 
No use looking so innocent. The game’s up!” 

With a contemptuous shrug and a lightning flash 
of her black eyes Ona accepted. “Follow me, then. 
I will take you.” 

“No tricks, young woman!” Kennedy had taken 
from me the arm I was holding. “What happens to 
me happens to you!” 

I must confess we followed rather timidly down 
what had been a servants’ stairway until we came 
where it ended nowhere, had been walled. The wall 
needed painting or papering badly. 

“Tell me what to do, Ona,” commanded Craig. 

“Give that baseboard a push with your feet—no, 
there. It will open.” She smiled malignantly. 

“Oh, my God!” groaned Hunter. “To think that 
woman has been anywhere near my child! What 




THE OPIUM QUEEN 311 

an experience! Kennedy, hurry—I can’t wait—let 
me in!” 

The plaster-board wall slid back quietly and 
slowly and we all rushed into what had once been 
a huge laundry. There was a crib in the comer 
and hiding all but the foot of it from our view was 
a high screen—a real work of Oriental art. Wonder¬ 
ful birds had been woven in its inky black surface 
in threads of gold and brilliant hues. It was just 
the thing to attract a child. 

Kennedy left Ona to me as he strode over to the 
crib. Hunter was next. 

The crib was empty. 

I looked at Hunter with commiseration as he sat 
on the edge of the little bed, his head bowed and 
his face in his hands, the picture of grief and dis¬ 
appointment. From him I looked down at Ona. 
She was laughing wickedly at all of us. 

Suddenly Hunter could stand it no longer, made a 
lunge at her, his hands clenched. She broke from 
me and ran to a comer, straightening, her back to 
the wall, imperious, scornful, the opium queen. 

Ona laughed exultantly, with devilish glee, as she 
faced us, in the corner, her back to the wall. There 
was something unconquerable about this female 
fiend. 

Ona seemed suddenly to sink out of sight, out 
of the room. The floor in the corner seemed to 
open, to yawn, to swallow her. Her pressure as 
she threw her head back imperiously had released 
in the wall a lever that shot back the false floor 
and she was standing on a little platform that 
dropped down a chute. A wave of the hand as she 
dropped and a mocking laugh back from the depths 


312 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

were all, as Kennedy grabbed Hunter just in time 
to keep him from toppling into the thing. The 
floor closed. 

In spite of the tenseness I almost laughed at 
O'Connor. He was standing, arms akimbo, eyes 
bulging, staring at a hole in the floor, then at a 
floor over the hole. All he said was three apropos 
words, very expressive but quite limiting one's 
vocabulary, “I'll-be-damned!" 

Inaction on O'Connor’s part was only for an in¬ 
stant. He grabbed an ax from one of his raiders and 
hacked at the floor as the blows reverberated down 
the chute. It was only a matter of minutes to un¬ 
cover the chute and the mechanism that moved 
the floor. A few feet below, the empty platform 
on which Ona had sunk to safety came to a sudden 
stop, jammed by the smashing of the mechanism, 
as it rose again under hydraulic or pneumatic 
pressure. 

It explained the escape of the others. There had 
been no use in surrounding the block, in cutting off 
roofs and cellars. This chute down the face of the 
height, alongside or even to the roof of the ware¬ 
house below, was their get-away. 

Hunter was mechanically turning over the things 
he saw in the room that belonged to his little 
Maybeth. 

“Look, Jameson, here are her beads—little tiny 
gold beads. I bought them for her birthday." 

“Some dolls," I pointed. “Crackers in this box. 
There’s some consolation. We know she was all 
right. They’ve evidently been half-way decent to 
her!" 

“Yes . . . yes . . . but where is she now? What 



313 


THE OPIUM QUEEN 

will they do to her, now they’re cornered? Will they 
wreak their vengeance on my little girl?” I knew 
he was thinking of the warning little foot, of what 
a sharp knife might do in an instant to a throat. 
“I’m crazy about it! That Chinaman will feel that 
she has been the cause of the raid—may put her out 
of the way!” 

I tried to calm him the best I could. But what 
do words mean in a situation like that? The only 
thing that counts is the loved one. 

Back in the Chandu Room, we took stock. Ona, 
even, had got away. All we had was Effie and three 
or four servants and attendants, a pair of addicts 
in that room, a longshoreman and two negroes from 
the bunks below—perhaps ten thousand dollars’ 
worth of opium and some five hundred dollars in 
small silver coins that belonged to the queen of the 
drug sellers. 

Maybeth was gone. Where? With whom? 
There was no restraining Hunter’s chagrin. But 
Kennedy was undeterred. 


VIII 


THE COUNTERFEIT PLANT 

Hunter, Craig, and I surrounded Effie as she lay 
restless, silent now on her favorite divan among 
the disordered pillows. 

I did not have time to do much thinking about 
the experiences of the night before here. The 
Chandu Room looked much the same. There was 
no great confusion. Evidently our raid had been 
unexpected enough to make them leave in a hurry 
sufficient only to save themselves. But they lived 
in constant preparation for that. 

Effie was still very much under the influence of 
the opium. Her eyes looked colorless and the pupils 
were mere pinheads. 

Off the Chandu Room was a tiny room I had not 
noticed before. It, too, was furnished with pillows 
and small taborets of teak wood inlaid with ivory. 
On one a huge copper kettle of water was boiling 
merrily and tea caddies were standing on the small 
table in the comer. 

“What’s this, Kennedy?” I asked. “A blind? Is 
it to make visitors think it is a tea-room instead of 
a hop joint?” 

Kennedy, with Hunter, had carried Effie into this 
room and placed her on a divan in the other comer. 
She was in a condition not so difficult to manage. 

“No, Walter. It’s easy to see you haven’t smoked. 

314 


THE COUNTERFEIT PLANT 


315 


When addicts come out of a prolonged smoke, they 
give them strong tea—as strong as they can make 
it. It helps them. IPs the theine in it—the alkaloid 
—somewhat of an antidote. I suspect your artistic 
friends in there were going to be brought out. I’m 
going to make Effie drink some of it now.” 

Effie drank the tea peacefully, continued drinking 
it as Kennedy held the cup. Suddenly he looked 
up and his face brightened as he spied something 
on another carved teak table. 

“Fine!” He rose quickly and brought back a 
big glass ball, a crystal gazing ball, such as the 
fakirs love. 

He placed it on a small table drawn up beside 
the divan on which Effie had sipped cup after cup 
of the strong tea. 

Hunter nudged me. “Look at him,” he whispered. 
“'Does he believe in that? Look!” I almost gasped 
with him. 

“Effie! Effie! Look at me!” 

Effie looked up timidly. Craig’s face was stem, 
his eyes compelling, his voice commanding. “You 
must see what I tell you! You must remember 
what I command! You cannot fail!” 

The girl nodded tremulously, not taking her eyes 
from his. 

“Look in the crystal ball! There is Eva—Eva! 
Do you see her? Tell me what you see!” 

Effie stared, her eyes riveted in the center of the 

ball. 

“Tell me about Eva!” Craig whipped it out 
sharply. 

“Eva . . . Eva is . . . like me . . . oh, so much! 
It’s strange. I seem to see somebody taking down 


316 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

my hair—a woman. She is putting my things in a 
bag. Now she is fixing—Eva’s hair—with things 
out of the same bag. ... We both know her! What 
is it? ... I see Eva . . . and then I see myself 
fade into Eva. . . . Why? . . . Why? . . .” 

Effie rubbed her hand painfully over her forehead. 

“Effie! Who is that woman? No mistake— 
now!” 

The girl swallowed with difficulty. “It’s . . . 
Mrs. . . . Picard. . . . She knows me. . . . She 
knows Eva. I see Eva on a narrow bed. Mrs. Picard 
is bending over her. . . . I—no, Eva, is asleep. Mrs. 
Picard takes a needle, jabs with it . . . Eva—no, I 
feel it! . . . How can that be?” The girl stopped, 
hesitating. 

“Go on!” Kennedy commanded. 

“I feel the jab of that needle! ... Oh! ... can 
it be? ... I am Eva—was Eva—sometime!” 

“Effie—where is Mrs. Picard now?” 

Again the girl thought hard. “She was here! She 
has the little girl. She left in a hurry when the 
police came. They have gone to the Hwang-Ho, the 
chop suey restaurant, with the others.” 

I could scarcely hold Hunter. “Kennedy, you’re 
great! I couldn’t have believed it!” Kennedy 
silenced him. 

“Effie—you are Eva. ... As Effie . . . you must 
take us to this Hwang-Ho, wherever it is. As Eva 
you have got to lead us to that child!” 

I was as amazed as O’Connor at the heroic 
hypnotic effort of Craig to merge the two personali¬ 
ties of Effie and Eva to lead to Maybeth. He had 
seemed to win. 

In a big closed car Effie-Eva directed us until we 



THE COUNTERFEIT PLANT 317 

came to the Hwang-Ho, a Chinese chop-suey joint 
on the West Side of New York in the fifties, near 
Columbus Circle. 

We pulled up with a rush and swooped upstairs 
with a rush. But again we were too late. There 
were only frightened Chinese and a few midnight 
patrons left. 

Over the restaurant we found cans of opium in a 
bale of raw silk, a fortune in itself. Otherwise the 
loft had been completely ransacked of everything 
suspicious and portable. 

From the frightened Chinese we gathered that 
they, whoever “they” may have been, were prepar¬ 
ing for a get-away—out of the country—to Canada. 
They had known that the water front and all ships 
were being watched. 

Under Kennedy’s questioning a sullen Chinese, 
who must have belonged to another tong than 
Chang, admitted that there was only one thing yet 
for them to get—a trunk full of yellow-backs! 

“Counterfeits!” was Kennedy’s observation out¬ 
side on the sidewalk as we split up. 

Kennedy and I with Hunter and Effie were to 
take up the kidnapping chase as Kennedy saw it. 
O’Connor after a hasty whispered conference left 
in another car to set guards at the Grand Central, 
the Pennsylvania, every outlet by which they might 
get by railroad within striking distance of the fron¬ 
tier or the lakes. 

Whatever my misgiving, I was convinced as we 
drew up down the street and I saw a light in the 
Brown Stamp and Coin Company’s place so far 
after midnight. 

It seemed that the neighborhood brought the Eva 


318 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


personality to the fore, as with Kennedy she led the 
way up the stairs. No matter how careful, we could 
not make them noiseless. 

At the door of the stamp and coin company we 
paused. There was still a light in the place. No 
one had gone out. No one could have passed us 
on the stairs and there was no elevator. Had they 
been there and got away? Were we too late? 

Craig tried the door softly. It was locked. We 
must get in. How? 

He drew his gun and blazed away at the lock 
until it was smashed and the wood about it was 
splintered. Then the three of us forced the door, 
expecting to be met by another fusillade. 

There was not a soul. 

But in the room farthest to the rear we came upon 
as complete a little counterfeiting plant as any crook 
could want. Scattered about were dies and half 
finished treasury notes. There were the press, the 
ink, the paper, a splendid bond. And in the closet, 
open, was a trunk full of yellow-backs in every 
denomination up from ten dollars. 

“They didn’t get away with that!” I exclaimed. 
“We must have been in time to stop that!” 

Kennedy smiled as he pointed to a couple of 
empty suitcases. “In time to stop filling those, you 
mean. If that trunk was full of bundles, they have 
taken out about two other suitcases full, at least. 
Where are they?” 

“Then it’s only a partial haul we-” 

Kennedy clapped his hand over my mouth and 
fixed all his attention, listening. 

There were unmistakable sounds above us. He 



THE COUNTERFEIT PLANT 319 

darted out into the hall, on rubber soles and heels, 
and listened. 

There was a child crying! 

Up another flight we went as quietly as the 
ancient stairs would allow us. 

We could hear a woman in a harsh voice trying to 
quiet the child. The child cried again. Suddenly it 
was muffled. Was it a hand over the mouth—or 
something worse? 

Kennedy turned to Eva. “That is further up— 
in the studio, I think. Have you the key?” 

Nervously she reached for a little reticule she 
had been carrying and opened it. 

“They’re—gone! ” 

I thought of Mrs. Picard, of any that might have 
taken the studio key, of Ona. Craig tiptoed up the 
next flight and we followed gingerly. 

“The door is open!” he whispered. 

Silently we glided into the studio darkness. There 
was no one in the reception room. We tiptoed on 
into the big studio itself with its glass roof overhead. 

Craig stopped. What was that—a noise of some¬ 
one crossing the roof? There was a bang of the 
studio door behind us, like a shot, followed by the 
banging of the door into the hall. 

Craig sprang to the studio door. It was locked— 
there was some brace that had been placed on the 
outside! 

He hurled himself against it. So did I—and 
Hunter. It was too stout to yield. Someone had 
lured us up there—and locked us in. Craig looked 
at his gun before I could even suggest. 

“I may splinter that lock out—but there’s the 
brace on the other side—and the outside door, too!” 





320 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


“This thing’s dead—wires cut!” I exclaimed as 
I flung down the useless telephone, in anger. 

My anger changed instantly to fear. 

There was an unmistakable, choking smell of 
chlorine in the air. I knew the deadly fumes too 
well! 


IX 


THE SELENIUM CELL 

We were trapped in the Vail studio, Craig, 
Hunter, myself, and Effie-Eva. Bang as we might 
and shoot at the locks of the first door that im¬ 
prisoned us, as well as the second to which we could 
not get yet, there were those deadly chlorine fumes 
that I had learned to dread when the Germans re¬ 
leased them years before. 

Already I had tried the telephone. Those wires 
were cut. Overhead on the roof we could hear the 
vibrations of someone—escaping. Centered as my 
mind was on our own danger, I noted that I heard 
no crying or other sound of a child now. 

What to do? 

“Where do you turn on the lights?” demanded 
Kennedy of Eva. 

She hesitated, in a high state of nerves, gasping 
in the fumes as they slowly gathered density. I 
fumbled about with a little pocket flashlight until 
I found a switch, and pressed it. Eva had not an¬ 
swered yet. Was Effie again in the ascendant? 

“No—not those—I mean the Cooper-Hewitts that 
he uses for his photography. 

Still, Effie-Eva was silent. Craig stuffed a wet 
handkerchief futilely to his nose as he searched. At 
last he found them. The studio was suddenly 
flooded with the ghastly light from mercuiy vapor 

321 



322 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


tubes, two banks of them, like a motion picture 
studio. We might have been trapped like rats, but 
it was not in a dark hole. 

Craig found a window pole, or perhaps it was a 
pole to move the Cooper-Hewitt bank that was on 
a sliding track overhead, a pole such as they call 
a “sky-hook” in the studio where the lights are the 
artificial sun. He began poking—smash—smash— 
smash at the costly glass roof. The mercury vapor 
light showed us the swirling fumes. Now, as Craig 
smashed the glass, all but one row toward the office 
building, I could see that the down draft from the 
building was driving them out of the windows I 
flung open. At least like rats we were not com¬ 
pelled to remain close to the floor, where the heavy 
vapors rolled thickest. 

As I looked out in the glare that was rapidly dis¬ 
pelled in outside darkness, I realized again that the 
studio, in the back of the top floor of an old house, 
was as far away from civilization in that business 
section at night, surrounded by deserted office build¬ 
ings, as if we were fifty miles out to sea. 

Smash—smash—smash. Kennedy kept on at the 
glass. 

I found time even to wonder about Effie-Eva. 
Had indeed the Effie personality triumphed over the 
Eva personality? It looked to me as if the lone 
Effie personality was stronger than the dawning 
merger of Effie into Effie-Eva. What, then, of Eva? 
Had Effie fooled Craig? Had she led us into this 
trap? 

I looked at Hunter and I could see that he was 
nervous, too, and dubious about the whole thing. 
Craig, as he paused in smashing the glass, was 


THE SELENIUM CELL 


323 


watching the girl anxiously. She had seemed un¬ 
willing to answer his questions. Was she unable? 
She seemed really ill. Her head had fallen forward. 
She was drooling at the mouth, as pale as death. 

Craig went over to her, supporting her by the 
shoulders. “Effie!” he called. “Do you hear me?” 
She merely nodded. Craig spoke the words de ¬ 
cisively in her ears. “When you are Eva this time, 
you must remember all you experienced as Effie. 
Mrs. Picard drugged you. You know that. Re¬ 
member your dreams—dreams—I command you!” 

Craig looked up at us, a moment later. “She's all 
right. She is recovering from two drugs—the twi¬ 
light sleep drug and the opium. She’ll be an alarmed 
Eva in a few minutes, with mental anguish and 
memories that will be enough to unbalance her. 
Keep quiet!” 

Suddenly we saw her seize Kennedy's arm 
piteously and bend her head over it. She w T as 
cowering in shame and bewilderment. 

“Take me—home!” she sobbed in a most pitiful 
tone. “I cannot forget—now! How could I have 
done all those things? Mr. Kennedy, Mr. Kennedy, 
what do you think of me? What does everyone 
think? What will my father think? He was right— 
there must be a Jekyll and Hyde in every woman— 
if someone brings them out! . . . Oh, God in 
heaven, take me!” 

Her white face was distorted in the anguish of 
her memory. 

I turned away and seized the “sky-hook,” to 
smash out the last of the glass toward the office 
building. 

“Don't!” warned Craig. 



324 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

“Why?” I asked sourly in our own danger, think¬ 
ing of someone somehow getting away to safety with 
the little girl. 

“Didn't you see how I wanted to switch on the 
Cooper-Hewitts?” 

“What of it? What good?” I looked up at the 
empty offices frowning in the blackness above. 

“The glare of the light makes the selenium cell 
on the glass roof a good conductor of electricity— 
my burglar alarm by light!” 

“Selenium cell?” queried Hunter. 

“Yes, you remember—of course, you couldn't re¬ 
member—when you burst into my laboratory yes¬ 
terday I was at work on it. This afternoon I had 
it installed, a peculiar little cell with wires, on the 
glass roof of this studio by letting it down gently 
from a window of the office building high over your 
head. Then the wires run down the elevator shaft 
to the basement of the building there, around the 
corner, on Fifth Avenue. O’Connor sent his men 
to the railroad terminals. He himself went to that 
building around the corner. It was as much for my 
safety as it was a blind to deceive our opponents.” 

“Then any time they came in this block, they 
walked into a trap?” I asked. 

Kennedy smiled. “Seems like a double trap,” 
was all he volunteered. 

“But Maybeth is being carried away again,” I 
persisted. 

“I only hope—she—is!” prayed Hunter, alarmed 
at the sudden silence and its continuance after the 
first cries of the child. 

Kennedy leaped to the door and began banging 
at the lock alternately firing a shot at it, then jam- 


THE SELENIUM CELL 325 

ming the door to see if it were weakened. There was 
a noise outside in the hall, a lot of noise. 

Above it all I could hear O’Connor's welcome 
brogue. “I’ve got the dastard!” 

Excitement grew as they worked at the braces 
outside, smashing them and the doors to splinters. 
Craig was as busy on his side. Suddenly, with a 
furious kick, the last lock gave way. 

The fumes of the chlorine had become dissipated 
into an unpleasant, gaspy odor. The quantity had 
been sufficient for a closed room, but not for the 
air that rushed in down that canyon of office 
buildings. 

I was ready to jump out to see who was there 
when I stopped, suddenly brushed aside by Hunter. 

Through the open door a little figure bounded— 
stopped a moment—choked a bit—then with a 
scream of joy ran. 

“My daddy! My daddy!” ' 

Maybeth was swallowed up in two eager arms. 
Hunter could frame only two words—“Maybeth— 
your mother-!” 

Forgetting us all, the little girl was crying gently 
on her father’s shoulder, with her arms tightly 
clasped about his neck. He could not talk. Only 
the big hands trembled, smoothing each little curl. 

Suddenly the child stopped crying. “Daddy, take 
me home! I want Mother! I’m so tired!” Then a 
moment later as she laid her head down, “Will you 
tell me that story about the Chinaman and his 
lamp? . . . I’ll tell one about the Chinaman I saw. 
He gave me a pretty screen to look at. ... I want 
Mother, Daddy!” 

Her little voice was getting weaker and weaker. 



326 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

She was nodding on her father’s shoulder. It had 
been too much for her. The merciful sleep of child¬ 
hood had drawn the curtain on what was to be to 
her only a dream, a story. 

One of the police in the doorway pulled off his 
big coat. “Put it around the little girl. . . . She’ll 
need it more than I do!” 

I thought . . . all big men . . . but as I looked 
about at them there was not a throat that had not 
a lump in it. . . . Of such are “The Finest”! 

Then I remembered, as I heard an oath out in 
the dark hall. I strained my eyes to penetrate the 
darkness. O’Connor had shouted that he had the 
dastard. Who was the prisoner—the infamous mer¬ 
chant of souls? 


X 


THE ROUND-UP 

“I had the block surrounded—not a man on the 
block itself, to scare them off/’ ground out O’Connor, 
as he shoved someone forward out of the shadows 
for Kennedy to see in the glare of the Cooper- 
Hewitts. 

I was as amazed as Eva Vail, herself. The soul 
merchant, the man higher up in the counterfeiting 
drug plot was Vail himself, as his own studio lights, 
by which the expert photographer had been able to 
do the first photographic work on his counterfeit 
notes, glared on him. 

“I’d like to break it more gently, Miss,” said 
O’Connor, modulating his rough voice, “but I’m glad 
to tell you you are not his daughter. He adopted 
you from an asylum when you were too young to 
remember, but I’ve got the whole record for Mr. 
Kennedy. He was a dope fiend then, as he is now— 
careful. Your father was not so careful. . . . That 
man, with the little gurrl, over there, is your furrst 
cousin! ” 

I could scarcely credit it. Vail had really been 
the head of a counterfeit gang to shove the “queer” 
over on drug runners and bootleggers, to be passed 
abroad, where it was safer. The counterfeit plant 
downstairs had been Vail’s, really; Mrs. Picard his 
creature. As for Ona, she had not been jealous of 

327 


328 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


the Effie personality and Paisley. She was really 
jealous of the Eva personality and Vail. Effie was 
nothing to her and Paisley was nothing. Really 
she cared about Eva and Vail, for Vail was amassing 
a huge fortune and she would gladly have risen from 
opium queen to queen of the old man’s ill-gotten 
money. 

“We got Ona and Mrs. Picard here with the kid— 
and him,” nodded O’Connor. “My men got Chang 
on the tube to Newark and that Jap, Nichi, at the 
Grand Central. They dug up Paisley in a speak¬ 
easy. We’ve landed ’em all.” 

He turned to Hunter. “Lonehand” Hunter had 
won his fight in the great opium clean-up. But he 
was smiling only down at the sleeping little May- 
beth on his shoulder. 

“I’m sendin’ up that screen to your house in New 
Epsom, sir,” he smiled broadly at Hunter as Craig, 
with his hand on Eva Hunter’s shoulder, also smiled 
at her and led her over to the man with the little 
girl in his arms, “with the compliments of the Police 
Department!” 


Buccaneers of Booze 




BUCCANEERS OF BOOZE 

- 

I 

“THE DEIL’S AWA’ WF THE EXCISEMAN!” 

“Kennedy, if half that goes on beyond the three- 
mile limit was told, it w r ould fill all the story books.” 

Boyle of the Prohibition enforcement office stood 
by Craig's laboratory table and looked at his watch 
as if expecting someone who was late. 

“And the other half that goes on on land,” I vol¬ 
unteered, “would fill all the newspapers.” 

Kennedy smiled. “I suppose you leave the movies 
to the detectives—moonshine comedies?” 

Boyle sobered. “Well, there's no comedy to this 
case. Listen. If you had a tip, you’d take it and 
keep your eyes peeled. Well, I did. I was looking 
for some rum runners just about due from Nassau. 
We sighted a fifty-foot cruiser that had been 
lightering the stuff to shore—drifting helpless, crew¬ 
less, down off the Jersey coast, somewhere near Long 
Branch. When we got up to it, the decks were 
awash. Someone had opened the sea-cocks—or 
sorriething. The cruiser sank and we marked the 
spot with a buoy.” 

The enforcement agent paused, dropped his watch 
back in his pocket. “We raised it. . . . Two hun¬ 
dred and forty cases of Scotch and other stuff—at 

331 


332 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

forty dollars a case out on the fishing banks, nearly 
ten thousand dollars investment—at a hundred in 
New York, almost twenty-five thousand. ... In 
the cabin we found the dead body of a beautiful 

girl-” 

“Drowned?” 

“No—shot!” 

The outside door banged. But there was no tap 
at our door nor burr of the buzzer. 

“I’ll bet that's this Tessie Tantum, now.” Boyle 
strode out into the hall, leaving us to ponder his 
startling introduction. 

Outside I heard voices, the other of a girl who 
betrayed none of the qualities of culture or refine¬ 
ment. Her shrill giggle and the excessive amount 
of it made Craig wrinkle up his forehead. 

“Another cackling chicken come to roost,” I mut¬ 
tered, then checked my uncomplimentary murmur 
as Boyle, accompanied by a flashily dressed young 
person who might have been pretty if she had left 
some of the artificialities to older women, came in. 

“Kennedy, I told you I was going to bring a wit¬ 
ness along. I thought you would like to hear what 
Miss Tessie Tantum has to say, first hand. I be¬ 
lieve she knows some of the people involved better 
than anyone else.” 

Tessie laughed some more. Among other things 
that she was not she was not embarrassed. As we 
were introduced, I saw that she was looking at 
Craig's hands, also at mine. They evidently did not 
meet with her approval. 

“Come up to the Hotel Surrey—in the barber 
shop. I'll give you a real manicure. That's my 
business. I'm there every day. Get me?” 




r 


“DEIL’S AWA’ WI’ THE EXCISEMAN!” 333 


“Just a minute, Tessie,” interrupted Boyle. 
“Let’s not discuss business—yet. You remember, 
Kennedy—maybe Jameson does anyhow—reading 
of a Mrs. Warner who reported the disappearance of 
her daughter, Hazel Warner-” 

“Hazel was manicurist in the beauty parlor at the 
Surrey,” interrupted Tessie. “Some kid—jazz 
crazy!” 

“You knew this Hazel Warner?” began Craig, in 
an endeavor to get down to the facts. 

“Sure! You bet I did. Us girls must stick to¬ 
gether!” and Tessie laughed her raucous ’laugh. 
“Jazz crazy. I took her down to the Toddle Tea 
Room, myself.” 

My ears went up at that. The Toddle Tea Room 
had been raided a short time before and the Star 
had made quite a feature of it, high-school flappers, 
young college chaps, and all. I looked at Tessie with 
a little more interest and wondered why she was 
telling anything. If it had been a man, it might 
have been the barber’s itch for money. I had been 
with Craig long enough to realize that there is a 
motive back of all actions by all people, though 
some of them don’t even know it. I wondered what 
Tessie’s was and it didn’t take me long to figure it 
out. It was the motive that fires a good many of 
the crimes and most of the petty meannesses of 
women—jealousy of a girl prettier than herself. 

I heard Craig, encouraging. “Just tell me your 
story, Tessie—all you know.” 

She had a shrewd little face and an important 
manner. I recall that, just to jolly her, as I always 
do with manicure girls who may not be brainy but 





334 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

are always breezy, I asked her if a detective made 
her nervous. 

“Not much—not after I have held the hands of 
bankers and politicians with a pull—and any num¬ 
ber of editors.” Her emphasis was clearly to put 
me in my place. “I told you, Mr. Kennedy, that this 
girl that I palled with was another manicurist up at 
the Surrey, in the beauty parlor. I liked her a lot 
at first. She was a good sport. But Hazel was jazz 
crazy—jazzing around all her time off.” 

“Was she pretty?” asked Craig. 

Tessie’s face clouded. “Too—darn pretty. I 
ought to-a-known better. I introduced her to my 
Buddy—and I lost him!” 

There was vexation over her tactical and unusual 
error. When girls pal, if they are as pretty as Tessie, 
the other one usually is fat enough for the reduction 
works, or something—the more especially if the girl 
expects to introduce her foil to the fellow. Tessie 
was vexed because she had not followed her instinct. 

“How did that happen, Tessie?” inquired Craigs 
contriving to loosen her tongue by dwelling on the 
fatal step. “I thought all girls were wise enough to 
keep one man away from the other girls they knew 
—at least.” 

Tessie chewed viciously at a small piece of gum, 
sometimes concealed cleverly in the back of her 
mouth. “Oh, I took Hazel Warner down to the 
Toddle Tea Room—that’s all. You know the place. 
We call it the Toddle and Toddie, sometimes. Hazel 
was all dolled up, with her curly brown hair and big 
blue eyes. . . . She just had all the boys after her 
down there. She had a way with her, too. You 


“DEIL’S AW A' Wr THE EXCISEMAN!” 335 


know what I mean. The boys hke her before she 
even speaks. . . . 

“My friend used to be a waiter down there. They 
call him De Luxe Don, but his real name is Donato, 
with a wop first name, Beniamino—Dopey Ben, I’d 
call him! Well . . . he was a big tall fellow, good- 
looking and I liked him—but it’s all off, now. Do 
you know what that guy did? As soon as he saw 
Hazel with me, he came right up; she got the serv¬ 
ice, not me. What do you know about that? But 
I haven’t got them eyes that won’t behave—and my 
hair is straight and black and shiny.” 

“You might add beautiful, too,” smiled Craig. 

“Quit kiddin’! I’m through with the men— 
through with the men!” But I noticed she 
rubbed her shiny locks appreciatively. I felt it 
was not for long. “This Don is quite a sport, 
see? He never misses a fight at the Garden 
and he knows the name and past performances of 
every race horse in the country. He’s always fol¬ 
lowing them treacherous ponies. But the last one 
he picked is going to lead him some race, some race— 
she is!” 

Her black eyes snapped impishly. “We hadn’t 
been in the tea room very long, see, when it was 
raided, understand, by a bunch of reformers. Some 
association—I read they was trying to end the 
tawdry tea-room iniquity—whatever that is. It’s a 
bunch that can’t make a living ’cept by watching 
what other people do and drawing a salary to stop 
’em. . . . 

“I was sitting with Hazel and this Don was stand¬ 
ing by the table when these people crashed us. But 
Don led us out through the back way. I never knew 



336 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

they had such an exit before. We got out into the 
backyard and from that into an alley. You bet we 
done some hustling. 

“And there was a taxicab waiting as nice as you 
please. We jumped in' because the driver was a 
friend of Don. Don just shoved us in, he was in 
such a hurry to beat it. But, say, you’d ought-a- 
seen another couple rush up. It was that Lotus 
Leon—maybe you read about her getting a divorce 
in the papers?—she comes up to the Surrey Beauty 
Parlor and Hazel knows her—and that young 
fellow, E-vander Robb,” she dwelt on the first syl¬ 
lable as if in doubt whether the old name was not 
an initial, and added, “She calls him Ev. Well, 
they just naturally piled into the taxi, too, and 
then this here, now, Manny Lusk, that’s the driver, 
he looped it uptown as fast as he could and never 
got no ticket, neither. Some driver!” She con¬ 
sidered the recollection with animation. “We was 
all laughing and joking. We had jammed in in such 
a hurry, it was hard to tell where our legs was or 
where they belonged—believe me, there wasn’t 
nothing in its right place!” 

Here Boyle interrupted the reminiscence to get 
back to facts. “They went up to an uptown jazz 
joint that is said to pay for protection—though 
that’s bunk—unless they mean the fines they pay, 
until we put a padlock on the door, some day. 
There was this De Luxe Don, Hazel, and Tessie, 
and when they got there they invited the driver 
in with them, this Manny Lusk.” 

“Yeh,” resumed Tessie, eager to tell it herself. 
“We sat down over some highballs and got talking. 
Don says he’s had some money down on a pony, a 


“DEIL’S AW A' WT THE EXCISEMAN!” 337 


thirty to one shot, what runs under the wire a length 
and a half ahead of the field and he’s got $300. He’s 
rich. This Manny says he just had an offer of $450 
for his taxi and is going to sell it in the morning. 
Well, then Hazel, she says she has saved up $250 
in the bank. Then they got to talking what they 
had on ’em, and the cash was forty-five dollars. 
They said they was rich—and they was pretty well 
fixed between ’em—$1,045. Then Don, who’s been 
a waiter and knows the ins and outs, says, ‘Why 
work?’ and the others says, ‘But how live?’ and he 
says, ‘Rum runnin’, of course; everybody’s doin’ 
it!’” 

She paused for breath and I paused to think how 
the raid to make Hazel good had sent her certainly 
wrong, branded by the reformers who saved her soul. 
Before Tessie could get her second wind, Boyle took 
the floor. 

“You know this Evander Robb, young so-called 
millionaire clubman—with actually an allowance of 
two thousand a month? He has never broken any 
law worse than signing a falsified income tax return 
and hunting ducks on Sunday. Well, according to 
what I get, he said he had a friend on the bootleg 
curb market around Longacre Square who told him 
that it was reported there were a hundred thousand 
cases of all kinds of booze on the docks at Nassau— 
ten million dollars’ worth at New York prices. 
Someone had told him that a tanker was bringing 
some of it, ten thousand cases, that another tanker 
was needed and there weren’t any available, but 
that there was an auxiliary schooner under the Brit¬ 
ish registry, the Grant’s Town, that was available 
and could carry twenty-five hundred cases, maybe 


338 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

more. This fellow w r anted him to go in it and make 
some money. 

“Then this Lotus Leon girl—you recall she 
divorced Frank Leon because he lived for his polo 
and his ponies and his mother, too much mother-in- 
law—told them that she had her little estate some¬ 
where between Rumson and the shore over in Jersey 
and she had a station wagon and a sport car, with a 
real trunk to go on the baggage rack. She said rum¬ 
running was more sport than hunting big game in 
Africa. Everybody was doing it—from Eastport, 
Maine, to Key West, Florida, from Seattle to San 
Diego, and from Detroit to Tia Juana. . . . Some¬ 
times I think she's right. Well, these two groups 
began to get together—also another fellow named 
Marty Mason and his girl, Agnes Ascher, who had 
begun hanging out in this joint." 

“Yeh!” interrupted Tessie again, a little peeved at 
not holding the stage, “De Luxy and Hazel and 
E-vander and Lotus, they was having a great time 
over the fortune they was going to make in a hurry. 
They didn't pay much attention to me. >They 
thought I didn't amount to much; I ain’t got two 
hundred and fifty cents in no bank. And Don, he 
was groggy over Hazel. . . . But I got something 
that they forgot and that's my tongue! It wasn’t 
long before I got the hunch to blow the works to the 
prohibition enforcement, for the dirty deal they 
handed me. They had plenty of hootch and the 
party got sloppy, specially after this other couple, 
this Marty Mason and Agnes Ascher, met up with 
them. This Marty was a good spender, jolly, and 
he seemed to know everybody in town. He says he 
could take orders to-night with Agnes, for the whole 


•f 


“DEIL’S AW A’ WI’ THE EXCISEMAN!” 339 

hundred thousand cases, if they could bring it in. It 
wasn’t long before this Marty says he will come in 
and go along on the trip, and Agnes, she was to stay 
right here and be something like a guard or watch 
or something, besides taking some advance orders. 
They had it all arranged and planned down to spend¬ 
ing the money, see? 

“But by this time Hazel began showing her claws 
to me, and I won’t take it from no cat. We had an 
awful battle—just words, understand?—and Don 
backed her up in everything she said and as much as 
told me to beat it while the beating’s good. Huh! 
When I was getting up, mad, I heard this Lotus say 
that now they could really talk. Her back was to¬ 
ward me but I was mad and I slapped her, good, on 
the shoulders. Then I flings my gloves that I was 
carrying, the fingers, right in Hazel’s face and I does 
beat it. You couldn’t see me for legs. . . . And the 
first thing I does the next day, when I see Hazel 
don’t show up on her job no more, was to blow it all 
to Mr. Boyle here, who says he’ll wait until they 
actually get back and do something, then he’ll crash 
’em, and I’ll get some reward for spilling their dam’ 
beans!” 

Tessie was genuinely angry now, but Boyle calmed 
her long enough to tell of the fifty-foot cruiser, the 
Regina, that Evander Robb owned and that was 
often anchored in the Shrewsbury River when he 
visited Lotus Leon and other friends in the Rumson 
country, of the Leon place not far from the river, the 
station wagon, the sport car, and finally of a friend 
they mentioned that they’d have to take in. This 
friend was Anne Thropp, whose father had the big 
Thropp bungalow on the beach near the Shrewsbury; 



340 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


closed in the winter and spring, where Anne had an 
amateur wireless of her own. 

“Their plan was simple/' he continued. “Donato, 
the financier with the thousand, engaged to get the 
schooner somehow. Robb and Lotus Leon were to 
finance the booze. Robb's cruiser was to lighter it 
to shore, huckster it, they call it, from the fishing 
banks, out beyond the three-mile limit, and this 
Anne Thropp was to get their wireless and send them 
news, while Agnes stayed and took orders and 
Manny Lusk got the transportation by car ready. 
Evander Robb knew the Bahamas and he was pilot, 
and Lotus Leon was supercargo, or something. She 
says she can do anything—knock a mutinous sailor 
for a goal with a belaying pin or something like that. 
It was a nice party!" 

“Yes, Boyle," cut in Kennedy quietly, “you’ve 
told me all the details of how it was framed up. . . . 
Who was the dead girl you found on the boat?" 

“Lotus Leon." 

“And the boat?" 

“Evander Robb’s Regina ." 


II 


THE BOOZE BARRAGE 

Kennedy had hardly time to find out whether the 
boat was running so early in the season to Atlantic 
Highlands, where the Regina had been towed with 
the body of Lotus Leon or whether we would have 
to go roundabout by rail, when there was a very, 
excited call on the telephone. 

"It was Anne Thropp,” he told me. “We’ll wait 
for her. I know her father, Irvin Thropp, president 
of the Airline National Bank. She wants to come 
up to me to help her. She has been arrested by 
revenuers in her car for carrying a case of liquor on 
the Staten Island ferry. She gave a fictitious name. 
But they have the car and of course they’ll look up 
the license number, find her real name, confiscate 
the car—and she doesn’t know what will happen to 
her after that. She left her diamonds as bail. They 
were kind enough to fingerprint her and let her out 
with the jewels as bail, because it was a girl. I 
don’t think a man would have had such an easy 
time.” 

It wasn’t long before a very excited girl, scarcely 
in the debutante age, burst in on us. She was un¬ 
doubtedly pretty, with a mass of golden hair, which 
she constantly brushed up with a small white hand 
in graceful, quick, nervous motions. 

“You know, Mr. Kennedy, I’ve been in a rum- 

341 


342 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


running scheme—just for the excitement of the 
thing. Ev Robb told me there was no particular 
danger in it, so I went in, just for the lark. But it 
seems as if we were wrong.” 

As I studied Anne Thropp, I couldn’t help won¬ 
dering at the young girl of to-day. Here was one 
with unusual beauty, wealth, and social position. 
She lacked thrills and excitement. The movies no 
longer supplied the thrills; she was blase on pictures. 
Racing cars, fast motor boats, and much time on 
their hands were splendid foundations on which 
booze brokers might build capable bootlegging acces¬ 
sories when there was a certain smartness in defying 
law. Craig said nothing of what he already knew, 
but let her talk ahead. 

“I started in by agreeing to go down to our bunga¬ 
low on the Shrewsbury and use my wireless, about 
the time they expected to anchor on the fishing 
banks. They had a pretty good set on the schooner, 
one that could send up to twenty-five miles, or so. 
Then I got deeper and deeper in it. It was thrilling, 
y’know.” 

It must have been. She was nervously balling 
and unballing her gloves, plucking at the fingers, as 
she talked. “But, Mr. Jameson,” she appealed to 
me, “you’ll keep me out of the papers—just a little 
—won’t you? Do you know, I am more afraid of 
Dad than the law. Somehow or other I respect him 
—but the law. ... I hate to say it, Mr. Kennedy, 
but nobody seems to think much of that any more. 
All the best people are laughing at the eighteenth 
commandment!” 

Craig looked at this seventeen-year-old girl in 
amazement. His face quickly assumed a serious 




THE BOOZE BARRAGE 343 

cast. “I am glad you came here, Miss Thropp. You 
are not the first person here to-day to see me on this 
affair. I know your father and I feel that I ought 
to do something to . . . lighten the blow, if I can. 
The government is already at work. Now, over the 
telephone you told me you were framed. How do 
you mean? You must tell me all you know; other¬ 
wise I cannot work so quickly. Just tell me—is 
there anything that makes you think you will be 
implicated in this murder of Lotus Leon?” 

Kennedy stopped, his face resting on his hand, 
and he looked at Anne Thropp with eyes that would 
not accept a lie. She startled as he said it. 

“Oh! . . . Then you know about that?” She 
turned from looking out of the window, as if fasci¬ 
nated, her eyes transfixed by Kennedy's searching 
gaze, then tremulously spoke of her fears. “One of 
our crowd yesterday told me that they were worried 
over Lotus's not getting to shore. She had over two 
hundred cases of the stuff on the Regina, Ev's boat, 
with Captain Staley. He's an old fisherman down 
there. I'll tell you about him more, later. We were 
worried; no word about Lotus all night; and a rev¬ 
enue boat out there. This morning I heard some 
youngsters talking about a boat that had just come 
up to the public dock. I questioned them. The 
captain of the boat had seen the revenuers raise 
another boat that had sunk and on it they had found 
a murdered woman. 

“You can imagine I hurried down to the dock. 
There I saw a man I know, a friend of Dad's, and he 
told me that the dead girl was Lotus Leon—and that 
my father's shotgun, his ten-gauge old blunderbuss 
Greener that he uses for ducks, had been found in 



344 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


the cabin near the body. He told me to go to Dad 
and get a lawyer.” 

“Your father’s fowling piece—on the cruiser?” re¬ 
peated Kennedy. “How could that be?” 

“Oh, it was in the gun room with a lot of other old 
guns at the Bungalow. I suppose ’most anyone 
might have got in the gun room,” she answered 
glibly. “But, Mr. Kennedy, I was afraid to go to 
Dad. I was worried over that gun. So I decided to see 
a lawyer, myself. Everybody was gone at the bunga¬ 
low. I never looked at a thing but the gas in my 
sport car. I just hopped in and beat it up here for 
the city. I wanted advice before my name was 
dragged all over like an aniseseed bag. But before 
I even got off the ferry I was stopped by some rev¬ 
enue agents. They showed their badges and wanted 
to look over my car. I told them to go ahead. I 
was completely floored when they found a case of 
Scotch under where the extra rear seat folds over. 

“I didn’t know it was there. I told them it must 
be a frame. But they only laughed. ‘That’s what 
they all say!’ One of them was mighty fresh. He 
said, ‘You’re a pretty little liar!’ The other told me 
he knew something better than bootlegging and tried 
to make a date with me, if he didn’t arrest me. I 
was more afraid of him that I was of either Dad or 
the law.” 

Her sophistication was only a cover; underneath 
Anne was almost in tears. “Oh what a day it has 
been, Mr. Kennedy! To lose one of my dearest 
friends, to have the feeling that I’m to be mixed up 
in a murder, some way, and to be arrested for trans¬ 
porting a case of Scotch. Oh, why did Ev ask me 
into the thing? You’ll help me, Mr. Kennedy? I 



THE BOOZE BARRAGE 


345 


feel as if I had enemies all over. Who would take 
father’s gun from the empty bungalow and leave it 
on that boat—and who would put that hootch in my 
car this morning when we worked all day yesterday 
to get as much as we could ashore and all last night 
to get it away from the bungalow? ... I came to 
you. I thought I needed you more than I needed a 
lawyer. . . . Who wanted me to get arrested? Who 
hates me that much?” 

“Or who fears you that much?” added Kennedy. 
“Now, you poor foolish little girl, after you leave 
here, I would get in touch with your father, if I were 
you. Tell him everything and keep quiet; go to a 
quiet hotel and stay there.” He paused, reassuring 
her. “Now, you’ve done most of the talking. Let 
me ask you what happened down there yesterday. 
Who came to the bungalow? Who would have a 
chance to get the shotgun?” 

“Oh, all of them. Then she added hastily. “Ex¬ 
cept Ev. He only came in on one trip; the rest of 
the time he stayed out on the schooner as supercargo, 
or whatever you call it. You know, we got a tip 
that a revenue cutter was due up there to-day. The 
rum-smuggling has been going pretty strong lately. 
So everybody was working hard to get as much of 
the stuff ashore as we could safely yesterday. We 
had four boats huckstering for us—that’s what they 
call it—huckstering, like selling garden truck. There 
was some excitement in our crowd.” 

“Four?” repeated Kennedy. “I thought Robb’s 
Regina was to do all that.” 

“Yes—but the revenue cutter, you know. I had 
a small motor boat, half decked over, and this Manny 
Lusk, the chauffeur, who understands all about gas 


346 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

engines, said he would take it out to the schooner 
-and bring in some cases if someone would help him. 
We wanted to get it all ashore before the revenuers 
came and we would have got it, if this terrible . . . 
shooting hadn’t happened on the Regina, which 
could carry most and was fastest.” 

“Did you go?” I asked, seeing the story of a flap¬ 
per bootlegger. 

“One trip. Hazel Warner made the others. You 
know we could take only about thirty cases on it.” 

“Where’s Manny Lusk, now?” 

“Well, you see, we got a good deal of it ashore 
yesterday. . . . But the cutter came up then—a day 
ahead. I guess the tip was a blind. Then we de¬ 
cided it was dangerous to leave the stuff in the 
bungalow. Manny got a motor truck and moved it 
up to a warehouse here in the city, over on the West 
Side. It’s there now. But Manny’s gone!” 

“Wliat other boats? What of this Captain 
Staley?” 

“Oh, he has a cabin cruiser, the Highlands, that 
he used to rent out for deep-sea fishing. He’s mak¬ 
ing a lot of money running stuff in with it, now. Oh, 
I guess he’s rich out of it. Anyhow, when I told 
them about Staley they said to get him, even if he 
charged ten dollars a case for lightering the stuff. So 
we did. The first trip, Staley’s boat came in piloted 
by Marty Mason alone. It had about fifty cases. 
Agnes Ascher was there at the wireless at the cottage 
with me. He took her back for company. That 
must have been about the time that Lotus started 
from the schooner in the Regina with Captain Staley 
and the big load, the two hundred and forty cases; 
there were about twenty-five hundred on the 


THE BOOZE BARRAGE 


347 


schooner. They never arrived at shore. She was 
picked up, dead. Staley has disappeared—maybe 
drowned.” 

“Where’s his boat?” 

“At its mooring where we left it.” 

“You said four boats huckstering.” 

“Oh, yes. Out there in the fleet—there were six¬ 
teen anchored on the banks including our schooner 
and the tanker—Captain Staley went over to a 
friend of his on another schooner and borrowed a big 
motor dory that would hold oh, twenty cases or so, 
covered up with tarpaulin—fish would have been 
better, but we didn’t have any. 

“Donato—this DeLuxe Don as they call him— 
made one trip in this with Hazel Warner, but she 
quit. It was too wet. You know Hazel is as jealous 
as a cat, anyway. She stole Donato from another 
girl, I hear, and they told me Lotus was pretty 
stuck on Don during the trip. Some of her own 
medicine to Hazel.” 

“But, Miss Thropp,” inquired Craig, “do you 
think you had any—rival?” 

She looked at him keenly, as if he were guessing 
her secret. “I haven’t any affairs. I only care for 
Ev Robb. He’s older than I am, but he keeps telling 
me we’ll get married when I am eighteen. Ev’s 
such a good fellow, all the girls like him. Lotus 
went out with him more than I liked. I was hoping 
she wouldn’t go to Nassau on the boat with the rest 
—but she did.” 

“Did any of the other girls try to cultivate him?” 
persisted Kennedy. 

I fancied it troubled Anne to answer, too. It is 
hard for a girl to confess that the man she loves is a 



348 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

philanderer. It is too much like saying, “I’m a simp 
to stay, but I canVhelp it.” 

“Oh, Agnes Ascher had a crush on him, too, I 
guess. She never said much about it—not to me, 
anyhow. But she had his picture and kept talking 
about the time ‘when Ev comes back from Nassau.’ 
I didn’t like it much, but Ev never bothered her. 
He didn’t even write to her. I think he really cares 
for me and wouldn’t let me go because he didn’t 
want me to be in danger on the schooner. I’ve suc¬ 
ceeded in getting into enough of it though, it seems. 
. . . But the funny part of that was that Agnes and 
I liked Ev, and Ev thought a lot of Lotus. Then 
Lotus got a crush on this De Luxe Don. . . . Some 
of us are funny. ...” 

“When you missed the Regina you searched, of 
course?” 

“I’ll say we did. We might have got it all landed 
but for that, in spite of the revenue boat being a day 
ahead.” 

“The stuff’s not at the bungalow?” 

“No, Manny got a motor truck and moved it to 
the warehouse that the broker told us about.” 

“The broker? Who is he?” 

“A man named Deutz, in the office building that 
used to be the Burridge Hotel—the man who told 
Ev Robb about the hundred thousand cases on the 
wharves at Nassau in the first place.” 

“I’m going to see him. He seems to be in a sort 
of syndicate.” 

“Y-yes . . . but, oh, you’re not going by your own 
name are you, Mr. Kennedy? He’d recognize you. 
I’ll tell you. You be Mr. Kendrick and Mr. Jame- 


THE BOOZE BARRAGE 


349 


son be Mr. Johnson with a hotel up in the Orange 
Mountains or some place. You want to buy some 
good stuff. Mention Father’s name. He sells stuff 
to Father; does business at the bank!” 


Ill 


THE BOOTLEG CURB MARKET 

Kennedy made a radical change in his plans and 
we sought out the syndicate bootlegger, Deutz, in 
the Burridge Building. He was there, all right, 
doing business under the name of a law firm whose 
name was on the door and whose sheepskins and 
leather books were in the outer office. 

What interested me was the number of girls about 
as we entered the building. It was in the district 
where there are many theatrical and motion picture 
enterprises. But I felt that that did not wholly 
account for it. Here was an alliance of flappers and 
' bootleggers. 

We had not so much as got to the elevator when 
Kennedy turned aside and greeted a girl who had 
been talking to a tang tadpole in a belted coat, 
tailored up to the minute. It was Tessie Tantum. 

“Sure,” she said, sliding the gum back into some 
sort of pouch in the back of her mouth, “when I 
saw how easy it was to make money, I went into it, 
too. You bet. And all I learns from Mr. Boyle’s 
talk—that helps. Don’t you know girls make 
mighty good retail salesmen for hootch—the best? 
Naw—I haven’t given up my manicure work. 
Betcha life. That’s my office—the hotel barber 
shop. I got lots of customers.” 

There was much to reflect on in that as we rode 

350 



THE BOOTLEG CURB MARKET 351 

up in the elevator. But there was more coming be¬ 
fore the afternoon was over. 

Deutz was a stocky fellow of medium height with 
a sharp, weasel nose. I don’t know how it is, but 
Kennedy could sell Panama hats to Eskimos. He 
sold himself to Deutz without even the trouble of 
calling Thropp at the bank. Not only that, but he 
led the conversation around until we got to the 
Bahama whisky fleet and he even knew from some 
fellow clubman about Ev Robb. It w T asn’t long 
before Deutz opened up and told us he knew where 
the stuff that Robb was bringing in was. 

“But that stuff off the Suds is sold already/’ he 
added. 

“The Suds?” queried Kennedy. “Why that 
name?” 

Deutz laughed. “Well, it’s a schooner, ain’t it?” 
Then he laughed some more at Robb’s humor. “He 
was going to name it the Scuttle oj Suds , but it was 
too suggestive for the rotten old tub, he wrote me 
from Nassau. Oh, I’m getting lots of the stuff from 
those boats out there on the banks. But, being as 
you’re friends of Mr. Robb and Mr. Thropp, too, I’ll 
tell you that that stuff he’s bringing in is the best. 
Lots of it gets cut down with water while they’re 
bringing it up—and after it’s landed, too.” 

“And some of it’s never from the Bahamas at all, 
I understand,” I put in. “They tell me there are 
ships with gigantic stills, copper coils that mount up 
from the hold to the deck, that turn out a couple of 
hundred gallons a day—with labels, bottles, corks, 
seals, carried out to the ships.” 

Deutz laughed. “Don’t you believe all of that 
guff” 


352 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


But I set it down in the same category as the pro¬ 
hibition director’s denial in an interview to me once 
that there were any considerable number of rum¬ 
running boats until the Star hired a tug, sent a 
photographer out there, and snapped fourteen of 
them. 

Kennedy had been pondering the question. 
“Where is this stuff? Can I see it—sample it?” 

Deutz, who had an office full by this time waiting 
to see him, nodded. “Sure, if you want to run over 
to the warehouse. It’s the Atlantic Furniture 
Warehouse on West Street. Wait, I’ll give you a 
card. Only, be a little careful, will you please? Go 
over to the warehouse, then take dinner with me to¬ 
night and we’ll talk turkey on price.” 

We called a taxicab and rode over within a 
block of the place, then paid the man off and 
walked the rest of the way. 

Suddenly Kennedy halted. “Did you see that fel¬ 
low hanging around up there by the market?” 

“Yes,” I admitted. 

“I’ll bet that’s Manny Lusk, from the description. 
Wonder what he’s doing here? Maybe they don’t 
trust each other.” 

We entered and back of the grimy windows of the 
blackened brick warehouse I saw such sights as 
might have made a feature story any Sunday. There 
was precious little from Grand Rapids in this furni¬ 
ture warehouse. 

It seemed that there were two classes of stuff. 
Some, like that Evander Robb had brought in, was 
going to wealthy connoisseurs who were constant 
customers and whose trade was not only constant 
but valuable. This stuff was let alone. But there 


THE BOOTLEG CURB MARKET 353 

was much that was not. I had heard of the new re- 
fillable bottle, cutting the bottom out of bottles, 
fusing the glass again after they had been filled with 
half water or all rot-gut. But these people had the 
science of it. No bottle was non-refillable to them. 
The label was all right; the seal was all right. But 
they got better than two for one on the contents, 
with the aid of the excellent city water supply. As 
for the remainder, there were bottles with names 
blown in them, labels counterfeited, seals duplicated, 
so well that it took us a long time to get down to 
the real ostensible purpose of our visit. 

In fact, we never did get to it. There was a sud¬ 
den outcry, a clanging and smashing—and on Ken¬ 
nedy’s first visit to a whisky warehouse under the 
present regime, he found himself with me captive in 
a raid by the enforcement forces! 

“Say—Boyle!” I muttered, under my hand as I 
saw our friend, who had evidently been engineering 
the raid. 

“For the love of Pete!” Boyle eyed us in the 
miscellaneous group that were herded by a couple of 
his armed men in the bookkeeper’s office. 

“Did you pinch Anne Thropp?” asked Kennedy, 
as Boyle contrived to separate us from the others on 
some plausible pretext. 

“No; but my men tell me the office got a tip— 
underground—same as this tip was. How did you 
get here?” 

Kennedy did not enlighten him to the point of 
decreasing any of Boyle’s respect for his omniscience. 

We had crossed wires on that trail. Kennedy and 
I went back to dinner with Deutz in a rather famous 
restaurant that conformed to the law. 


354 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


It was Deutz’s loss, but he did not seem to be 
much worried by the raid. To him it was just an 
unfortunate hazard in the course of an extra- 
hazardous undertaking. Besides, his partners were 
really lawyers. There was always a chance. 

“Wish I could get insured in Lloyd’s!” he ex¬ 
claimed. “But you can’t kick when you lose some¬ 
times. Think of what you win. I’m for Coue! 
Every day in every way we’re getting this thing bet¬ 
ter and better. For instance, those fellows out 
there”—he waved his hand in the general direction 
of the Atlantic Ocean—“pa,y an average of, say, 
fifteen dollars a case in Nassau. They may average 
forty dollars out there on the banks. That’s a hun¬ 
dred and fifty per cent profit and no great risk; none 
from the law; it’s all on the high seas. Well, sup¬ 
pose these other fellows that bring it from them get 
a hundred a case ashore—that’s two hundred and 
fifty per cent profit to them. They have the risk.” 

“H’m,” considered Kennedy, with his pencil figur¬ 
ing on the tablecloth. “That’s fifteen . . . one hun¬ 
dred . . . nearly six hundred per cent profit from 
Nassau to New York.” 

The broker laughed. “It’s a great business, slak¬ 
ing the national thirst! . . . More money in it than 
anything I ever tackled and I’ve been one of the 
bookies, in movies, oil, ’most everything. It’s just 
like any other industry. The middleman is getting 
all the profits. The producer has to shave his close 
—and the consumer’s the sucker! ... Now come 
back to my terms? Half down—the other half when 
delivered.” 

“What if the stuff is seized?” 

The broker laughed at Craig’s scepticism. “Not 



THE BOOTLEG CURB MARKET 355 


a chance! We can put a revenue man on every 
truck if you want! You take your chance after de¬ 
livery, of course—just like the rest of us—just like 
you saw this afternoon—but from the time the stuff 
is landed—not a chance—not with this bird!” 

“You know I didn't get an opportunity to sample 
an}' of it. That confounded Boyle jumped in there 
before I got to it. But I saw a lot of fake labels and 
such stuff. Now, I cater in that hotel up there to a 
mighty fastidious trade. I really must taste the 
stuff before I go in for any considerable buy.” 

The broker Deutz considered. “No trouble at 
all,” he said. “Take you out to the fleet, if you don't 
mind the cold and the water and the risk!” 




IY 


ARGOSIES OF HOOTCH 

Down at the Battery, Deutz led us along a wharf 
until we came to a launch, the Here's How, tossing 
in the swirl of late winter tides. 

“There are three of the ships in the rum fleet that 
I have been doing business with,” remarked Deutz, 
“lying about fifteen miles out from here, I should 
say, with pretty full cargoes of the stuff. You say 
you’re most interested in the stuff that Ev Robb has 
brought in. Well, we’ll see that, too.” 

On the other side of the slip I noticed in the rising 
moonlight another small boat tossing, evidently 
waiting for someone. As an arc light on the other 
wharf swung in the wintry night wind, it revealed 
the face of one man on the boat. It was the same 
face that Kennedy and I had seen watching on the 
comer as a lookout just before the raid on the ware¬ 
house. 

I called Craig’s attention to him, but as the fellow 
did not seem ready to move and was certainly not 
watching us, there was nothing but to let him alone. 
We forgot him as soon as we were under way, slip¬ 
ping out into the choppy waves, down past Gover¬ 
nor’s Island to the left and the Statue of Liberty to 
the right. 

As we were slipping along through the Narrows 
and in the Upper Bay we passed a couple of police 

356 


ARGOSIES OF HOOTCH 


357 


boats on the hunt for smugglers. Kennedy had been 
talking an order of a thousand cases and now ex¬ 
pressed his fear that it would never get through. 

Deutz laughed. “Delivery guaranteed at ten 
dollars a case added to what you pay out here for it 
—F. 0. B.!” 

“But Eve heard of its costing that to lighter it,” I 
interposed. 

“Not me,” protested Deutz. “Fll run it ashore— 
somewhere—get it on four trucks—my trucks carry 
about two hundred and fifty cases each—and deliver 
it anywhere you say—ten dollars a case for delivery.” 

I marveled at the organization of it. Of course 
everyone was taking a chance. But this man talked 
of it as though the science of booze blockade-running 
had reduced the thing to a state where he could 
quote liquor like cotton. 

Still, as we chug-chugged along down in the ex¬ 
panse of the lower bay and around Sandy Hook, I 
was convinced that some at least of the swift moving 
craft we saw now and then were revenue boats, fast 
cruisers of the dry navy. Nothing shook the confi¬ 
dence of Deutz, who continued to descant on the 
quality of his goods, his reputation for prompt and 
satisfactory service. Every statement called forth 
an acquiescent nod from the skipper of the Here’s 
How, a thick-handed, blond, progeny of Norse 
Vikings. 

It was not quite three hours after we started and 
some seven miles southeast of Ambrose Lightship 
when we sighted a part of the liquor fleet, as free as 
if it were no man’s sea out here within the beams 
of Scotland Lightship and Sandy Hook Lightship. 

I counted almost a dozen of them as we ran along, 



t 


358 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

and there were more than that, which I could not 
see. This was the Bahama rum fleet just off shore 
in the safety zone, hove to, or riding saucily at 
anchor. As our Norse skipper ran us close to some 
of them we were mistaken for buyers and greeted 
with offers of varied and assorted liquors at prices 
that fell sharply under international competition. 

Here and there I saw a steamer, a trawler at 
anchor, looking mighty expectant as they smudged 
the horizon further out. But for the most part the 
fleet outside the three-mile limit were schooners and 
the stuff they had for sale was Scotch and Canadian 
and Bahaman liquors. 

I learned from the skipper that there were many 
Nova Scotian and New England vessels, that some 
came down from Canada to unload, then went on to 
the Bahamas for a new cargo, coming back and going 
on again to Canada for more, swinging around the 
big circuit. They were migratory birds. 

Whether all the smaller fishing boats through 
which we threaded a tortuous way were interested in 
the merchandising of whisky, we could not say defi¬ 
nitely. Some must have specialized in it. Others 
may have fished. But, as Anne had hinted, what 
might be under the fish, even then? 

I had heard a great deal of talk about the fleet 
being mythical, press-agent talk to promote bootleg 
sales. But what of this schooner, a slate-gray craft 
from Halifax? Why was it down from the neigh¬ 
borhood of the Great Banks, where fish are about as 
plentiful as anywhere in the world, to cast its nets 
in waters off New York, where fish are so pitifully 
few? 

The skipper changed his course and swung into 


ARGOSIES OF HOOTCH 359 

the trough of a restless sea. She plunged her nose 
into the swells that mark the deep water some* 
twenty miles or so out from the Battery. We were 
approaching a schooner now with no topmasts, all 
stripped down to what you might call racing rig, 
ready for any gale. 

“I’m going to take you aboard a West Indian, 
the Fer-de-Lance, a Frenchman, in charge of a 
negro who calls himself L’Hibouette—the little owl. 
You know the fer-de-lance —that very deadly little 
snake down in Martinique V’ 

Kennedy nodded. We had had experience with 
the actual reptile itself on our trip down the east 
coast of South America and back along the west. 

“They call Hibouette the king of the smugglers,” 
went on Deutz familiarly. “Wait till you get up 
alongside. You’ll see he has signs hung out quoting 
prices—like gasoline—twenty-eight cents! If he 
gets competition he cuts the price to meet it, and 
posts it. The government has been trying to get 
him a long time. He’s a past master, a wonder in 
his line. The eels of the ocean aren’t much slicker 
than he is. He’s the one they want most of all.” 

We had now run alongside the Fer-de-lance and I 
saw the signs. A couple of cargo booms swung out 
from the masts and over the side hung ice-coated 
rope fenders as inviting as a door mat with “Wel¬ 
come” worked on it. The lookout shouted, but I 
could not make out what he called, nor the reply of 
our Viking, but a couple of other muffled figures 
appeared on deck and stolidly watched us until we 
came around to the lee, then helped us aboard. 

Down in a cabin, with my eyes wide, I saw that 
guns were everywhere, and knives. It was the 



360 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


mangiest-looking crew imaginable. Hibouette was 
not visible at first, but at last he came in, a burly, 
scarred, frayed black man, who greeted Deutz cagily 
in West Indian Anglo-French-American. 

Hibouette ordered three specimens brought to the 
cabin, a bottle of Haig & Haig, of Johnny Walker, 
and Maryland Club. He set the price of the first 
two at $38, and the rye at $40, explaining that as it 
had had to be shipped out from Baltimore to St. 
Pierre and then back the price would be two dollars 
higher. Deutz repeated the offer of ten dollars a 
case for delivery. Kennedy apparently wavered be¬ 
tween five hundred cases of Haig & Haig and five 
hundred of Maryland Club, discussing his require¬ 
ments, and the prices he might be quoted on other 
ships. Hibouette gruffly assured him that they 
would go no lower for good stuff, that he was setting 
the price for the others; they had to meet him, not 
he them. Still, Kennedy found other excuses for 
not closing the deal. 

All the while I was watching the ratty crew and 
wondering who besides those we saw might be under 
cover down below in the hold or up in the fo’castle. 

Questions about the schooner of Robb and his 
crowd and about the captured cruiser Regina elicited 
nothing but gruff grunts. It was an invitation to 
keep off the secrets of the business. 

“I’m glad to have had the chance to see the deep- 
sea men, from Nassau and St. Pierre, Miquelon,” re¬ 
marked Kennedy to Deutz, as we were preparing to 
go over again the perilous side into our launch. “I 
see it’s the landlubbers that do the huckstering to 
shore.” 

“Don’t make any mistake about that term rum 


ARGOSIES OF HOOTCH 


361 


huckster," replied Deutz. “As a matter of fact, very 
little of the better class stuff off Atlantic Highlands 
is fetched here haphazardly. Most of it is ordered in 
advance. I know because I order it myself. A 
syndicate wants ten thousand cases. The money is 
posted. The captain is told that the moment he 
presents a receipt for the delivered goods on his boat 
at Nassau he has his money for carrying it. Fiscal 
agents and banks take care of paying for the stuff; 
he gets his and pays his crew out of it. Then we 
arrange here to take the stuff off. Why, there's 
more than a million gallons a year that come from 
the Bahamas. The government there collected a 
duty on its last year of a million, eight hundred 
thousand dollars, they tell me! Everybody's mak¬ 
ing money except the United States—and these 
people are all thumbing their noses at your Prohibi¬ 
tion Commissioner!" 

I thought it over. It was a system that had 
reaped fortunes for those in it. It seemed to bid 
fair to demoralize the fishing industry of the New 
England coast, as it had already the little fishing 
industry down there around the Highlands. Not a 
law was violated so long as the big boats remained 
outside the three-mile limit—and if the three-mile 
limit were extended, incalculable international com¬ 
plications all over the earth would result. The real 
violators were the mosquito fleet of tiny sloops and 
power boats that plied between the big fleet and the 
shore. Perhaps some of the larger schooners had 
“flivvers" that might run in to the shore from the 
“mother ship" for water and provisions—and with 
other things. That was a violation, if any of the 
stuff was landed that way. 


362 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


As we pulled away, practically assuring Hibouette 
that we would come back to do business, I thought 
of something one of our own editors on the Star 
had written, that the Atlantic was a busy ocean, 
never so busy since Drake, when bold English sea¬ 
men pirates lay in wait for Spanish galleons. The 
new piracy was less romantic than the old, but more 
active—and a lot more money in it than in galleons, 
besides being safer. 



V 

THE THREE-MILE LIMIT 

Our skipper knew the boats by their middle 
names. He headed down to the southward and 
pointed as we came up to a shovel-nosed tub of a 
schooner, if anything, more disreputable-looking 
than all the rest. I wondered if it would hold to¬ 
gether until we got aboard. 

A lookout in olive drab once issued by a supply 
officer in the army of the United States, stiff with 
cold, flapped his arms about himself in a vain at¬ 
tempt to beat off the freezing wind that was shriek¬ 
ing through the rigging above him. 

“How much for Scotch?” shouted Deutz, the in¬ 
veterate joker, seizing a little megaphone. 

“Blah—blah—blah!” 

The lookout did not seem to care whether they 
sold or kept. He knew they had other outlets than 
through chance jobbers. Contemptuously he took 
out a black bottle, ostentatiously tipped it up as he 
threw his head back, drained the dregs that had been 
left in it, then flung it overboard into the lacy crest 
of a wave that slunk along the lifting hull of the 
schooner. 

“What you got?” repeated Deutz with a wink to 
us. 

“Dynamite!” growled back the other, his hands 
doing the megaphoning. 


363 


364 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Our Viking guffawed. Just then a rather athletic- 
looking chap in a sheep-lined khaki reefer came from 
below. I saw that this was Robb himself. After 
him came a dapper fellow in a smart cloth polo cap 
greatly in favor on Broadway between Longacre 
Square and Columbus Circle. That I took to be 
De Luxe Don. Everything but the boat here was 
de luxe , in contrast with the Fer-de-Lance. 

“It’s Deutz!” called back our host. 

“Come aboard!” chorused the two. 

I looked back across the water at the Fer-de - 
Lance perhaps a quarter of a mile away. In the 
cold moonlight on the water we could see a small 
boat come up but we were too far away to see who 
made the transfer to the ship of the Little Owl. 

Our Viking laughed. “Cap’n Hibouette has cus¬ 
tomer already! I gass we bane bring him luck.” 

“These fellows in small boats have their nerve, 
with the revenuers all on the watch,” I observed. 

“Nerve?” answered Deutz. “They have no 
nerves, you mean. They don’t know what fear is.” 

We had difficulty getting over the side of the Suds, 
as Ev Robb had named his schooner that looked to 
me like a ship that would founder herself. The 
name “Haugesand: Norway,” a little fishing village, 
had been painted out, in spite of the bad luck to 
change a boat’s name. These were no ordinary 
sailors, however. The bark of a police dog, whom 
Robb ordered back below so that he might help us 
aboard unhampered, showed that. 

As Deutz, Kennedy, and I came over the rail, we 
saw that there were several others poking their 
heads out of a cabin hatch. Young Robb himself 
seemed to be overjoyed to see somebody. In a gen- 


THE THREE-MILE LIMIT 


365 


eral clatter of tongues Kennedy managed to gloss 
over his acquaintance as “Mr. Kendrick” with Robb, 
so that Deutz saw nothing suspicious in it and Robb 
let it pass without comment. I flattered myself 
that we were more than ordinarily welcome to two 
girls whose faces I saw in the cabin hatch. 

“Things have been a little quiet to-day, Deutz,” 
remarked Robb. “The, revenuers are snooping 
around and since this—er—this mixup yesterday, 
nothing—doing. I got a notification from the bank 
that your certified check was deposited, as agreed. 
But, good Lord, how glad I’ll be to get back on solid 
ground again.” Robb shook his head in the depths 
of his sheepskin collar, as he clutched at a shroud of 
the mainmast, to steady himself in the pitching. 

“Humph! It’s a good thing that it’s a custom of 
the trade—and you have your check!” growled 
Deutz. “The warehouse was raided by Boyle’s men 
not ten hours after the stuff was in it—and I’m the 
goat. . . . But . . . you have to expect those little 
things, now and then.” Deutz laughed as lightly as 
even a big operator may over some sixty thousand 
dollars or more. 

Down in the cabin I thought that the two girls 
were more bored than Robb. It looked as if time 
were hanging heavy on a crowd who were eager to 
get away—could it be?—from each other. 

Hazel seemed to keep pretty close to DeLuxe Don 
and there didn’t seem to be anything else for Agnes 
but to make up to Marty Mason. Robb only spoke 
to her when she spoke to him, and I thought it was 
rather often. I could see none of the enthusiasm 
that Tessie Tantum had been telling us of that ex- 




366 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


isted the night they made up to go to Nassau for 
the hootch. 

“Fve brought out a couple of customers—these 
friends of yours, Robb,” said Deutz finally, when we 
got settled in the cabin. “Before they buy they 
want to do a little tasting. Their clientele in their 
hotel want nothing but the best and they must get 
it. Ill be responsible for getting the stuff ashore, if 
they buy.” 

Robb went over to a cabinet, opened it, and 
brought out a couple of bottles, both five-starred. 
Kennedy and I sampled them. They were the real 
stuff; there was no doubt about that. I would have 
been enthusiastic in praising the mildness and 
smoothness of it except for the fact that I knew a 
sale would tax the combined resources of Kennedy 
and myself if it ever went through. I lay low. 
Robb seemed a bit more pleased with life, a little 
brighter, a quality that, I reflected, had almost fled 
from millions ashore. 

“Pity the poor landlubbers on a night like this!” 
exclaimed Deutz, always extracting some humor to 
lighten life. He did not drink, however. He poured 
a couple of drops in the hollow of his palms, rubbed 
them together, then held both, cupped, up to his 
nose to smell the bouquet. It was an action I had 
not seen for many a day with liquor salesmen. Then 
he took just a sip in his mouth, rolled it about, tasted 
it, and spit it out. 

“You may look,” he smiled at the bottles, “but you 
must not touch! ” 

“Yes,” I reminisced. “Touch not—taste not— 
handle not!” 


THE THREE-MILE LIMIT 367 

He shook his head. “Touch it—taste it—handle 
it—but don’t drink it!” 

I turned to Marty and Agnes, who seemed the 
most silent and glum, and asked them what they 
thought about living on a boat. They murmured 
something about not liking it; too slow. 

But it started things, reminiscences from Hazel. 
It seemed that a week ago, with $37,000 worth of 
whiskies, wines, gins, and rare cordials in the hold, 
and a blue sky overhead with soft, mellow breezes 
about, it had been different. I gathered that before 
the week was out the cargo had been less by several 
cases. 

I saw a picture of canned music on a portable talk¬ 
ing machine, even of jazz music over the wireless 
from New York, dancing by moonlight, kisses 
pledged with quarts of Pol Roger and chased by 
clinkers of Cliquot, in the land where thousands were 
vacationing. This was buccaneering par excellence. 
I felt that the author of Treasure Island , if he were 
alive to-day, would not lack for new and bizarre, 
material. 

But up north, on the wrong side of the turbid Gulf 
Stream, in the winter winds—it was different. 

“You see,” unburdened Marty further, “my job 
up here has been, a good deal, to cart the stuff to 
shore. Most of the time Ev’s been sort of super¬ 
cargo, out here. But we can’t do that now. It 
seems they’re watching our end, most. It’s too 
risky. Then someone has to stay here with the girls. 
We don’t want to leave them alone out here.” He 
faced in the general direction of the fo’castle and 
waved a hand generally toward the fleet. “Some¬ 
thing might happen.” 



368 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


Hazel and Don joined in and their questions 
skirted on queries as to what the authorities were 
doing over the murder of Lotus Leon. 

“Mr. Johnson/’ Hazel addressed me, “I don’t sup- 
post you know, but have they seen or heard anything 
of Anne Thropp since she disappeared? It seems 
mighty funny to me that she should have run away 
just at this time. We’d know more if she could send 
on some wave length on that wireless of hers. Seems 
to me I’d-a stayed and seen it through.” Hazel 
looked at Don for appreciation, but she didn’t re¬ 
ceive much heart balm in that direction. Don 
seemed preoccupied and ill at ease. 

“This thing has cast a gloom over the whole busi¬ 
ness!” exclaimed Hazel. “Before that, everything 
was fine. It’s too dam bad!” Yet did I detect a 
sort of relief in this girl over the demise of Lotus, 
rather than depression? “Let’s not talk about it. 
Let’s cut the gloom stuff.” 

Don seemed impatient, though silent on the sub¬ 
ject. 

“Well, then,” noticed Hazel quickly, “I wish some 
of you men would start something. It’s a great life 
—if you don’t weaken!” 

Marty looked up. “Yes ... I think the less we 
think of that murder, maybe, the better off we’ll be. 

. . . It seems darn funny Manny hasn’t shown up 
out here. I wonder what he’s up to?” 

“Maybe he’s hunting up Anne,” joined in Agnes. 
“Maybe they’re in together.” She elevated her eyes 
in a superior manner. 

I could see that Kennedy was listening in on this 
interchange and at the same time doing his best to 
satisfy Deutz and Robb as they discussed quality, 


THE THREE-MILE LIMIT 369 

quantity, price, and delivery. He was trying to 
shade the price on the basis of twenty-five hundred 
cases costing $37,500 in Nassau and selling for $100,- 
000 here, with a price of $250,000 for them in the 
city. 

On the subject of the murder of Lotus none 
seemed to want to talk much. Was there a feeling 
of mutual suspicion? 

“I'm afraid I'd be so interested to know who got 
her," joined in Craig, “that I'd forget about the 
hootch. Was she pretty?" 

“Wonderful," nodded Don, quietly. “Some 
twirl!" 

“Have you done anything? Any suspicions?" 

The little party looked at each other. There 
was a return to the former constraint. No one 
seemed to want even to think what was in their 
minds. 

“Well, Robb," persisted Craig. “Did Lotus Leon 
have any personal enemies?" 

“I don't know." Yet I felt he did know something. 

“Did she have a quarrel with anyone—or anyone 
have a quarrel over her?" I switched, recalling some 
things Anne had told. 

“Say," broke in Don angrily, “It's bad enough to 
have it happen—but that's a little fresh—from an 
outsider. Let it drop. Let the police do the work!" 

Just then there was a series of explosions outside. 
We poked our heads out. Any news out there is like 
a special extra. It was the Fer-de-Lance getting 
under way with her gas-kicker. 

“I wonder if they've repealed the Volstead Act— 
or the navy’s going to raid the high seas?" queried 
Deutz, trying to be jocose. 



VI 


THE SKY’S THE LIMIT 

Deutz’s joke fell flat. The Fer-de-Lcmce kicker 
got the schooner under way. But instead of going 
out to sea or moving up the line for a better moor¬ 
ing, she ranged over toward us. 

Suddenly there was a volley of pistol and rifle 
shots and the glass of the cabin windows was 
shattered. 

With a muttered oath Robb drew an automatic 
and returned the compliment, but the range was 
just a little too great and the slippery, heaving foot¬ 
ing of the Suds was not for good marksmanship. 
Don fired wildly. He was a tea room gunman. At 
least he seemed so. 

“Give us that stuff of yours!” came a pretty clear 
voice in a megaphone, borne by the wind. 

“Go to hell!” shouted back Robb, reloading. 

Pumph—pumph—pumph—pumph—pumph- 

One of the water casks rolled over—cut in half! 

“Gad! They’ve got a Lewis gun!” muttered 
Robb. 

“Surrender!” boomed over the waves. 

There was no immediate reply. For a small boat, 
one on a sort of shopping expedition, some private 
cruiser, ranged along. It was full of well-bundled- 
up fellows and girls, singing—and they were carry¬ 
ing a good deal, not in the hold. They were, as you 

370 



THE SKY’S THE LIMIT 


371 


might say, half-seas over. Evidently they had 
heard of the bargains and had come out for the lark, 
doing their summer shopping early. They ranged 
up nearer to see the fun. Not a befuddled head 
seemed to realize what it was all about. 

“Is this a private fight—or can anybody come in?” 
shouted one, trying to be funny. 

Pumph—pumph—pumph—pumph—pumph- 

Their little mast crashed, carrying lights and all. 

There were screams, male and female—a general 
ducking for the cabin, such a mixup of legs and 
bloomers and arms as only a panic could produce. 
The helmsman, who was guiding them out where the 
hootch was cheap, swung her helm hard about, got 
into the trough of the sea, and almost capsized. 
They shipped more water than would have chased 
all they had had to drink—and fled. 

But this time the demand had been repeated and 
sullenly Robb, Don, the crew, and the rest of us 
allowed the mangy, ratty pack of the Fer-de-Lan.ee 
to swarm over the rail, almost falling into the fairly 
heavy seas. There was nothing else to do, with a 
little Lewis staring you in the eyes. 

“Tie ’em up!” shouted one. 

Then as the ill-smelling crew came to us and the 
Little Owl recognized Deutz, he muttered, “No— 
just take their guns!” 

Both Craig and I were armed and we hated to 
see those pretty little automatics get out of our pos¬ 
session. But there was nothing else to it in this 
fight between roughneck rum pirates and these silk- 
stockinged bootleggers. 

It was thrilling to me, I admit. It was something 
to bring back recollections of swashbuckling eight- 





372 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

eenth century days when suspicious luggers lurked 
in every port under the Dover cliffs. 

Only then did I realize that these exploits of rum 
runners to-day are revealing a chapter in modem 
ocean romance which has no equal this side of the 
days of Blackboard, Kidd, Sir Henry Morgan, and 
the other worthies of the Spanish Main. 

But this, again, was something else. Manny 
Lusk, the taxi driver, was indeed the fellow we had 
seen waiting in the slip on the other side when we 
had started. The passenger, or at least one, for 
whom he had been waiting, was Tessie Tantum. 

It might have been piracy on the high seas. But 
it was different. For here were Tessie and Hazel, 
the manicure girls, and such young ladies, as I have 
said, are rarely dull. 

When Hazel saw Tess climb over the rail and 
board the Suds, followed by Manny Lusk, her face 
and Don’s were studies. Beauty and the tea-room 
manner didn’t count for much against a Lewis gun. 
Tessie and Manny had been about the last to come 
over. 

Confidence, a man upon whom she knew she could 
depend, and revenge made Tessie actually hand¬ 
some. Her gown was in the latest Broadway fashion 
for sport wear, and the fur coat she had on must have 
cost a small fortune. The two girls on our boat 
looked on in fear and envy. By this time Robb, 
Marty, Don, and the crew had been bound, trussed 
up so that there was not a fight in all of them. 

Then I saw that it was twentieth-century-prime¬ 
val. All the men on the Fer-de-Lance were much 
for Tess and her ability. I could hear them say, 
“Tess, will see ’em ashore,” “Leave Tess manage 


THE SKY’S THE LIMIT 


373 


that guy.” It was a plain case of a shrewd girl 
crook who had made herself solid with as wicked¬ 
looking a group of cutthroats as had ever scuttled a 
ship on the ocean in the old days of romance. Tessie 
was thriving on such adulation. She knew how to 
put any one of them in his place if he got fresh—and 
they liked it. 

With a devilish look in her eyes and a sneer on 
her lips, Tessie came up to Hazel, who was leaning, 
half stunned, against the after cabin. Posing defi¬ 
antly, she placed her hands on her hips and with 
arms akimbo surveyed Hazel up and down with a 
leer. Then she looked at De Luxe Don, unhero- 
ically bound, with another contemptuous chuckle. 

“So! . . . You thought you could steal my man 
and get away with it, heh? . . . Well, I found out 
you haven’t taken my heart when you took the 
excess baggage! You told me to beat it. That’s 
what I’m telling you—beat it! You can’t beat it. 
If I wanted to have ’em do it, those men’d throw you 
overboard—put you in a small boat and set you 
adrift—make you walk the plank—if we had a 
plank! I ought to do it!” 

Hazel flashed back, dry of eye. She was a curious 
spectacle of bluffing bravado. She was scared. 
And Tess knew it. But Hazel wasn’t going to admit 
she knew Tess knew it. 

“What have you got to say, you cat?” screeched 
Tess in her ear. “Don’t you hear me? Are you 
deaf? Where’s your tongue?” 

Hazel was quick-tempered, too. Suddenly she 
turned and brought her open hand with a resound¬ 
ing whack across Tess’s cheek. There was a gen¬ 
eral roar from Manny and the other men. I 


374 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

expected momentary violence from them at Hazel’s 
imprudence. 

'Take that,” Hazel had hissed out. "And that— 
for the slap with the fingers of your glove that you 
gave me that night. I haven’t forgotten!” 

I didn’t understand Tessie. She turned from 
Hazel, with the livid marks of Hazel’s hand still on 
her face. 

"Do you want some more of the same?” hissed 
Hazel again. 

The men crowded forward ominously. 

With a shimmy step up to Manny, Tess told him 
to stay where he was and keep quiet. She waved 
her hand. "This is my party! You can cheer when 
it’s over!” 

Tessie never glanced at Hazel. But she took off 
her fur coat and tossed it lightly to a man who I 
had just realized was with them as I heard his name 
—Captain Staley. 

She undid her sport skirt, with a shout from the 
men, and appeared in neat and trim knickers. By 
this time her face was pale. Intense anger shone 
through her eyes. But it was all done quietly and 
coolly. And it was getting on Hazel’s nerves. 

Pulling her sleeves up and feeling her hair, Tess 
suddenly made one wild jump. With the yell of 
some deadly female of the species, she landed on 
Hazel and bore her down to the deck. 

"You said it . . . was empty fingers . . . the 
other night . . . Take that . . . and that . . . and 
that . . . you . . . thief!” 

I made a move to separate them, but Kennedy 
and I were covered by half a dozen guns like a flash. 
The men were shouting and yelling. Manny was 


375 


THE SKY'S THE LIMIT 

dancing up and down with glee. All the troglodyte 
instincts were loosened. It was his woman at the 
face of her enemy. “Go to it, Tess! That's right! 
Spoil her mug!" 

Tess was indeed a wild woman, oblivious of every¬ 
thing but her struggling rival. Blood was streaming 
down Hazel's face from the scratches. 

Sitting on Hazel's breast as the boat rocked in the 
long swells, Tess held her head and ground it into 
the grimy deck. 

“Now . . . you smart vamp . . . don’t you wish 
you had let things alone? Sharp nails . . . the way 
I cut 'em, for this, in the hotel . . . are better than 
empty glove fingers . . . you . . 

With a whack on each cheek and moans from 
Hazel, Tess picked her up and flung her, not as she 
had threatened, overboard, but, as the schooner 
careened, toward Don, so that she dropped in his 
lap, uncaught by his trussed-up hands. 

Hazel was all in, but not seriously hurt. She was 
whipped publicly and it was galling. 

Tess made a grand curtsy. “Count—ten—men!" 
She turned. “Is there a doctor in the house?" 

Manny came over and kissed her—which seemed 
an incongruity until I considered Manny and his 
curb-cruising breed. “You're great, Tess! No fuss 
—just a good mill!" 

Of such is the kingdom of Amazon. On the high 
seas it once made leaders. The setting changes. 
But the game is the same. 

Always with the main chance, Manny was for 
taking off the thousand cases now. 

“Now just wait a minute," was the deep-sea coun¬ 
sel of the Little Owl. “Send these others ashore 



376 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


first. What they don’t see, won’t worry them. 
They can’t tell so much!” 

“Then give us back the ‘gats,’ ” said Kennedy 
boldly. 

The colored pirate looked at Deutz, then decided 
it was better to do so. He even went further. 

“Will you take back ten or a dozen cases, sir, to 
pay for your trouble?” 

Deutz was still the humorist. “And v get pinched 
with it?” He looked over at our Viking and the 
launch riding off stern. “Ships that touch liquor 
shall never touch mine!” 

Deutz whispered to us: “We’d better beat it 
while it’s good. Nothing’ll happen to the others—if 
they give up. I told you—it’s an extra-hazardous 
business!” 

As we buffeted our way back toward the Battery, 
I drew in a long breath of biting salt sea air. 

“Well,” said Kennedy, inflating his chest, “once 
aboard the boot-lugger!” 


YII 


RAGS TO RICHES 

“Jameson and I will be along in an hour. Tell 
Anne to dress warmly. We’re going down in my 
car. Yes. I’ll do what you say. But I don’t think 
it’s really necessary. I think she has had scare 
enough. Well, all right. I’ll do my best.” 

Fagged by the nearly all-night trip out to the 
Bahama fleet, the freezing wind, the excitement and 
suspense, I was wakened by Kennedy telephoning 
early in the morning to Thropp. There was nothing 
but to hustle out, if I did not want to miss the trip 
to the Highlands where the boat and the body had 
been taken. 

Anne Thropp made even the car attractive in her 
big squirrel coat. Her eyes were bright, her color¬ 
ing the healthy rose of perfect health and ordered 
rest. 

“Oh, Mr. Kennedy, I’m so excited. ... I wonder 
if I shall see Ev?” She colored, but added, “I hope 
so.” 

“I should think you’d be sore at him for getting 
you mixed up in all this,” I suggested. We were 
crossing to Staten Island on the ferry. 

She thought a moment. “Well—I went in it—for 
him. But I didn’t have to go in. He didn’t point 
a gun at me or hold a knife over me. No, we both 
have the same bug—excitement. I wanted him to 

377 


378 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


think I was game. I wanted to seem daring. And 
I didn’t think. No, that part of it was more my 
fault than his. . . . I’m only a kid, as Dad says, but 
it makes me tired when I read the papers. Every¬ 
body is passing the buck. They must have learned 
it in the army. . . . The little boy that steals blames 
the movies. The girl who goes wrong blames some 
fellow for betraying her trusting heart. The man 
who steals blames his extravagant wife. They 
didn’t have to do it. I blame no one. I went into 
it myself. I take the blame.” 

Kennedy had been listening to her straightforward 
words with frank admiration. “You may be a ‘kid/ 
Anne, but you have the right idea, that most of the 
older people miss to-day. There’s too much coddling 
—and blaming others.” 

We were on the forward end of the boat and the 
wind whipped our faces and brought the rose of 
Anne’s face to a wonderful scarlet. I liked the 
gameness of the girl and her viewpoint. 

“What are you going to do first, Mr. Kennedy?” 
she asked. 

“This is a very serious business,” Craig replied, his 
eyes set far away out on the water, where we had 
seen a great deal the last night. “This law you have 
been disrespecting so much is wideawake and reach¬ 
ing out for everyone concerned in any way with this 
murder.” 

He intended it to be blunt. I saw the girl’s color 
fade; then she stiffened as she eagerly scanned 
Craig’s face. 

“I am going to see the Regina first, I may find 
something there that will help. The person who 
planted the shotgun might have unintentionally 


RAGS TO RICHES 


379 


planted something else. They often do.” Anne 
smiled wistfully at the glint of hope. “Mr. Boyle 
will be down later. But they are not going to inter¬ 
fere with us.” 

A sigh of relief escaped her. “But, Mr. Kennedy, 
I didn’t kill Lotus and I’m sure Ev didn’t. I don’t 
know who did.” 

“Well, even if they don’t try to hold you for the 
murder, they may for the bootlegging.” 

There was a gasp from Anne, then quickly, “What 
does that mean—pay a fine?” 

“Perhaps—if you come clean—help the authori¬ 
ties clear things up. It always helps.” 

“But it seems so disloyal to squeal.” 

“I can’t see any special brand of loyalty handed 
out to you, now that you mention it. They got you 
in bad with the case of hootch hidden in your car. 
They planted your father’s gun in the cabin with a 
dead woman. They haven’t bothered much about 
coming to your help when you got in trouble and 
disappeared.” 

“Yes—I know all that—and it hurts. I wouldn’t 
have been like that with them. . . . But, if telling 
the truth and coming clean will help Ev Robb, I’ll 
do all I can!” 

It had been impossible for us to follow on shore 
those on the Suds. There were so many places 
where they could have been landed if the piracy had 
gone through, that all Craig could do was to notify 
Boyle and have him watch the best he could. 

Bootleg hucksters at Highlands were not very 
talkative. Some dories were chugging about, how¬ 
ever, seemingly in preparation for trips at night. 
The boastfulness of the past weeks when the same 


380 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

clan had landed thousands of cases had disappeared. 

Still, as Craig went among the old-style fisher folk 
along the docks, I found it an interesting study of 
rags to riches. Some of them had been getting rich, 
as rich as if each had found Captain Kidd’s treasure 
or used a can-opener to crack Davy Jones’s locker. 
Nowadays there was wealth in a greasy fishing 
smack. These people were a queer nouveaux riches . 

I recall that we found one tattered old clam 
digger from the Shrewsbury w T ho had come over for 
curiosity. He was frayed and there were holes in 
his boots—to let the water out , he said with a dry 
smile, while I looked at the icy tide. 

“What’s your business in summer, skipper?”asked 
Craig. 

“Wa-al we fish—and we run rum,” came frankly. 

“What do you do in winter?” 

A grin. “Wa-al, we don’t fish!” 

It was from him, after gaining his confidence, that 
we learned that Robb and the rest must have been 
put ashore in the cold gray of dawn. They had 
broken up, each going a separate way. But where? 
I saw that Kennedy was looking at Anne from the 
corner of his eye. Might she know where Robb was 
at least? Would she tell? 

As we went down the steps that led into the cabin 
of the Regina , Anne stopped and with a little cry 
clutched my arm. “I can’t help it, Mr. Jameson— 
but I’m thinking of poor Lotus all the time. That 
last fight of hers must have been terrible. When you 
know a person as I knew Lotus and something 
dreadful like this murder happens to her with all 
her experience, there must be something, some 


RAGS TO RICHES 381 

Power, that protects me. Oh, God, I wish I could 
have been there to help her!” 

“You can thank your God you weren’t,” rejoined 
Kennedy. “Do you recognize that gun?” 

She went over gingerly to it where an officer was 
guarding it, shutting her eyes as she stepped around 
some stains on the floor. “Yes—that is Dad’s. I 
can’t deny the monogram on it. It’s the one I told 
you about. ... I wonder who would have taken 
it?” She wrinkled up her brow in perplexity. 

We looked about the boat, in the hold, on the 
decks, in the cabin, the wet lockers, the ruined 
kitchenette, at the cases that were being removed, 
everywhere. But we could find nothing that sug¬ 
gested a clue to the crime. Nothing seemed to have 
happened, nothing had been left or touched or 
moved that had the least relation to it. 

“It’s bad that we couldn’t give Captain Staley 
the third degree out there last night,” observed Ken¬ 
nedy. “There isn’t much here to clear up a 
mystery.” 

My spirits had cooled considerably and I could 
see that Anne’s face wore a harried look. She was 
very quiet, answering, very docilely, all Kennedy’s 
questions, some very personal ones at that. With¬ 
out a word she took his admonishment, his criticism, 
and I thought sometimes when I saw her lips 
tremble that he was rubbing it in. But he meant 
it to be a good lesson to her. And something else. 
Finally, he played his trump. 

“Anne, can you stand another ordeal?” 

“FU—try!” Her eyes were raised beseechingly. 

“Then, follow me.” 

We climbed back into the car and motored up 


382 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

to the business part of the town. Anne paled again 
as he locked his brakes before an undertaking 
establishment. 

Anne got out slowly and thoughtfully. With 
heavy feet she followed us across the sidewalk and 
into the office. Only once she looked at me and 
gasped, “Must I?” 

I shook my head. I was following Kennedy. I 
knew he must have a purpose back of it all. Always 
Craig was kindliness and chivalry to all women. I 
thought I saw his higher kindness to her. 

After a quiet word to the undertaker, he took 
Anne by the arm and led her into a darkened rear 
room that was the private morgue. 

Agony was written on her face. There by an 
open window was all that had been poor beautiful 
Lotus. Anne cried out and I think Kennedy never 
felt more sorry for anyone than for that little girl 
that moment. But he had promised her father to 
do something. And he had his own purpose. 

Craig put his arm around Anne. “There,” he said 
in a hushed tone, “is a girl who defied the law, de¬ 
fied the rules of society, defied all the things that 
have come down to us as good through the world’s 
experience. There she lies—little Anne. . . . 
Such defiance, such disrespect isn’t very successful, 
is it? Your father asked me to do this. It is the 
best sermon he can think of.” 

Holding his arm, the girl shook with sobs. Craig 
led her back into the fresh air, to the car. 

“Anne,” he said, “do you know where Ev Robb 
would go?” 

She looked at him, breaking down. 

“I—think so.” 


RAGS TO RICHES 


383 


“I want you to take my car and find him. If he 
comes clean now it will help you both. Later—is 
too late. Remember I am the only friend either of 
you have among all these men.” He waved at 
officers now teeming in the town. “When you find 
him, take him to the bungalow. That’s where I’m 
going next.” 

As she swung away, he turned to me. “She wasn’t 
killed with that shotgun. That was a plant. She 
was shot by a pistol .38.” 

I was astounded to see Boyle next and with him 
Marty Mason and Agnes Ascher. 

“This time,” he said, “it isn’t just rum running. 
The Admiralty is interested in piracy and crime 
committed on the high seas. Besides, I have our 
position protected, because the English consul joins 
in apprehending the criminals.” 

“But-” I whispered and jerked my thumb 

covertly at Marty and Agnes. 

Boyle smiled. “I didn’t know it myself. They 
were underground agents, with a commission from 
Washington. Down there they have a lot of them— 
to make examples of bootleggers.” 

I was thinking of Manny Lusk, of Tessie Tantum, 
and Captain Staley when by some queer quirk of 
coincidence one of Boyle’s cutters docked. Three 
men came up with Manny Lusk and Tessie, sullen 
and silent captives in a huckster boat. 

“We took this off him,” nodded one man to Boyle, 
extending a revolver in his left hand. Kennedy 
took it, broke it, examined it. It was a .38. 

For once Tessie broke the sullen silence. 

“That’s one of them guns what we took from the 
guys on the Suds. . . . That ain’t his.” 



VIII 


BROADCASTING JOHN BARLEYCORN 

Anne had Craig’s car. Therefore in Boyle’s car 
with Marty Mason and Agnes Ascher we rode down 
to the Thropp bungalow, followed by a couple of 
operatives in another car with Manny and Tessie. 
It seemed to be Craig’s idea to go down the Shrews¬ 
bury to see the wireless and the shore end of the 
rum running plot, which we had had no chance to 
visit in the rapid-fire events of yesterday. 

As we drove up the private roadway leading to 
the bungalow, I was impressed by the size and 
probable comfort of it. A huge porch was all around 
and the main entrance led one into a spacious hall 
that extended through to a garden in the rear. Big 
rooms opened off the hall and a narrow hall divided 
the rooms front and back and opened into a wing 
built on either side. 

My first idea was the incongruity of such a case 
taking such a house as a background. It was essen¬ 
tially homelike, built for love and quiet and children 
—not for lust and bootleggers. People were gath¬ 
ered there that should never have polluted its 
hospitality. 

As we searched the empty bungalow on the beach, 
I watched Marty and Agnes narrowly. I had not 
much respect for prohibition agents, anyhow. But 

384 


BROADCASTING JOHN BARLEYCORN 385 

the agent provocateur is just a little bit worse. I 
hate stool pigeons. 

I think they felt their position. Red spots on 
Marty Mason’s cheeks showed it as he faced the 
others. He had declined to ride with Manny and 
Tessie. Agnes Ascher dropped her gaze, even when 
she was speaking to Boyle. 

I imagined they wished they were assigned to 
some other case. In court it might have been differ¬ 
ent. But here they were forced to stand the gaff, 
accusing former pals. 

Boyle, however, was inexorable. There had been 
so much criticism of his office that he was going to 
do anything in his power to bring this case out 
successfully, no matter how distasteful it might be 
to any mere secret agents. 

We were searching about and found that no trace 
of the cases of hootch had been left, save where 
trucks had run up the broken stone drive, to load 
it in the night. 

Craig’s car—and Anne and Ev Robb—arrived. 
Robb’s look of happiness vanished as he saw Boyle 
and the others. 

Coming up the steps he had had his arm through 
Anne’s and they had been smiling at each other. 
Now he suddenly turned to the girl with a hurt 
look. 

“What have you let me in for, Anne?” he said, 
dropping her arm. “I trusted you when you came 
over to Barney’s and I let you coax me to take a 
dde with you over here. Barney was always a good 
leuth in college; he said to be careful. Why— 

hy did you do this?” 

Half laughing, half crying, Anne put her hand on 


386 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 

his arm again. “You got me into it, Ev-now Em 

getting you out!” 

He looked incredulously at her. 

“It wouldn’t have been long before they would 
have found you, anyway, Ev. By coming clean and 
saving them the trouble you only make your case 
better. Mr. Kennedy is my friend. He advised me 
and I am advising you.” 

“Mr. Kennedy f” Robb recognized the name, and 
looked sheepishly at Craig and me as he recognized 
Mr. Kendrick and Mr. Johnson. He said nothing 
to us but, turning to Anne, he asked her how long 
we had been helping her. 

“Ever since they found Lotus—and arrested me 
for carrying hootch in the car.” 

“Carrying hootch in your car? Why, I told every¬ 
body to keep you out of danger. Who got you to 
carry it?” 

“Nobody. It was a plant. But it worked. I was 
pinched. It looked as if the agents were waiting 
for me!” 

Robb looked over menacingly at Manny, sullen 
and silent. 

There was a noise outside as another car came to 
a stop. 

De Luxe Don had a studied, bored, theatrical look 
when he and Hazel were led into the living hall of 
the bungalow. He had not been prepared, however, 
to see Manny and Tessie, who had turned the tables 
on them the night before. 

Hazel’s face showed the marks of Tessie’s fingers. 
But she wore a veil that concealed the scratches 
slightly. Her animation increased and even Don’s 
spirits took a jump when he caught sight of those 



BROADCASTING JOHN BARLEYCORN 387 

who had caused them all the humiliation and loss. 

As she passed Tessie, Hazel turned a moment 
just long enough to shoot out sarcastically, “Why 
don’t you beat it? Why don’t you make me walk 
the plank?” 

Tessie maintained her silence. Manny’s hands 
clenched, but he said nothing. They had made it 
up, I figured, out of their low cunning. It was their 
protection. Manny now and then looked at Ken¬ 
nedy and me sullenly. We had seen the fight and 
he knew it. He knew we could swear to their 
boarding the Suds even if we hadn’t seen them take 
any of the stuff off. 

Gradually we got the story. It seemed they had 
all been put ashore just as daylight was breaking. 
The devils of the Fer-de-Lance had chosen the 
Shrewsbury, hoping that their victims might get 
caught. Marty and Agnes, it seemed, had got up 
to the city by train and had sought the first place 
to square themselves—the enforcement office. Robb 
had gone to his roommate’s to hide, because he was 
well known in that part of the country. But Don 
and Hazel had gone somewhere to get Hazel’s face 
fixed up and then had bummed a ride with a chauf¬ 
feur in a car going to the city. They had been 
picked up at the Perth Amboy ferry by Boyle’s men 
posted there. Hazel’s effort to protect her good 
looks had got them caught. 

“Who put that case of hootch in Anne’s sport 
car under the back seat?” demanded Robb generally, 
but particularly of Manny. 

Manny refused to answer. But a smile flickered 
over his face. 

Anne had been looking at Tessie. “It doesn’t 


388 CRAIG KENNEDY LISTENS IN 


seem right,” she murmured to me, “to have that 
awful girl sitting in mother’s favorite chair!” 

Kennedy had been tinkering with the wireless 
outfit, a mighty good one, near the French doors 
that opened out on one sweep of the porch. 

As we went over events, all tongues were buzzing 
about Captain Staley. 

“Only Staley can clear this thing up—quick,” put 
in Kennedy, still adjusting. “You certainly had an 
excellent land station for your whisky wireless, 
Robb,” he added. 

“We’ve sent the Geronimo out there,” considered 
Boyle. He looked at his watch. “They must have 
taken him off the Fer-de-Lance by this time. . . . 
We may not be able to seize their stuff—yet. But, 
by golly, we’ll jolly well take off a criminal when we 
have a warrant. I’ll take that chance, anyway.” 

“Wnat wave length on the Geronimo?” asked 
Kennedy, ignoring the ethics, whether it was legal 
or extra-legal. 

“It’s six hundred meters.” 

“And the call?” 

“R E V—G E R.” 

Kennedy twisted and adjusted some more. 

“They’re on!” 

“Did they get him?” queried Boyle. 

Kennedy raised his hand for silence. Then he 
adjusted the amplifier. There was a voice. 

“That boat’s British—British registry—British 
territory on the sea.” 

Boyle was vexed. “Then they didn’t get him,” 
he groaned. 

There was a laugh. 

“But they’re a dirty bunch on that mangy boat. 


BROADCASTING JOHN BARLEYCORN 389 


We couldn’t take him, exactly. But they gave him 
up. One less to divide with. We’re bringing him.” 

Kennedy adjusted the little talking, broadcasting 
barrel-like transmitter. 

“Put him on,” he cried out over the ether waves. 
“He can clear up something—very important!” 


IX 


WHO WILL REFORM THE REFORMERS? 

Clear and distinct came the voice of the old sea- 
dog out of the amplifier, talking rapidly, eagerly, 
as far as he could to clear himself of the murder. 

“Them double-crossing devils—Mis’ Lotus—she 
found ’em out! They tells me you has a .38. Yeh— 
that’s what they used, a .38. We took it from him 
on the Suds last night. Naw, I wouldn’ keep it 
meself on a bet. I give it to Manny Lusk!” 

“What double-crossing devils?” shot back Craig. 
“Whose gun?” 

“Them revenooers! That there Marty Mason 
and the gal, Agnes Ascher. They was goin’ for to 
get that last thousand cases for theirselves. They 
took me and Manny and his gal, Tessie, in. But I 
switched when they done that murder on that 
Lotus.” 

“How was that?” queried Kennedy. 

The voice came back. “How was it done? Easy 
enough. Marty and that there gal was cornin’ back 
empty for more in my boat, the Highlands. I was 
goin’ in with this Mis’ Lotus on the Robb boat. 
They signaled an’ got aboard. They had a shot¬ 
gun. She put up a game fight when they accused 
her of findin’ out who they was. Some gal, that. 
None o’ the rest knowed it. But she’s wise. I ain’t 
got nothin’ to say. He drawed and fired. Then 
when they wanted me to come on in, I says ‘No 

390 


WHO WILL REFORM THE REFORMERS? 391 

thanks/ Right there I switched. I was goin’ to 
jump over, but I seen the tender. I got in that and 
started to row away. They fired at me, soon as they 
fixed things on the Regina, but just then that there 
Revenoo boat shows up. They’re frightened. They 
beat it. I don’t know why the revenooers don’t see 
me tossing about, but they don’t. I beats it to 
Hibouette—an’ lets Manny and Tessie on shore 
know that we changed our plans and to tell Deutz 
the revenooers ain’t in it no more if they tries to 
sell to him!” 

Slowly as Cap’n Staley told it with some show of 
pride and virtuosity at what he would not stand for, 
I saw it. The first double-crossing had been planned 
by Marty and Agnes, with Staley, Manny, and 
Tessie to get the last thousand cases. But Marty 
and Agnes had been discovered by Lotus. They had 
killed her. But Staley would not stand for that. 
He had gone over to Little Owl, taking the thousand 
cases, leaving the whole mess of them to shift for 
themselves. Marty and Agnes had done the in¬ 
forming. At least they were going to appear to 
be on their job. But Marty wanted money. Agnes 
wanted a man. As for Manny, he had planted the 
case in Anne’s car and called up Boyle’s men on his 
own, to make one less in the gang. 

The relief of Anne and Robb was overwhelming, 
as the two thoroughly frightened young people 
stood beside Kennedy. 

Boyle put one clenched fist on each hip as he 
stood, legs wide apart, before Marty and Agnes. 

“Well, I’ll be—hornswoggled,” he bellowed. 
“Who’ll reform the reformers?” 


THE END 



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